title: 'Lost With You' (Bottles filled with my sanity)
by:![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
omgorgasm
pairing: Fernando Torres/Xabi Alonso, hinted Steven Gerrard/Xabi Alonso, mentions of Nagore/Xabi, Steven/Alex and Fernando/Olalla
rating: R for language and sex
disclaimer: this never happened.
author's note: so this is my take on why Stevie and Xabi are not making out with each other on the pitch any more. this fic came to me when i was googling Xabi with a non-footie friend in my rl (regaime who is to thank for the title and for cheering me on while i was writing it) and i saw a picture that i describe in the first part of this 11-part fic. also, this pairing has been a sort of 'personal otp' for me (it pairs together my two favourite players - of course i'm up for it!), so i'm sorry for every Stevie/Xabi fan (i myself included) and enjoy.
a/nii: i just realized that i didn't get to the one part of this story i actually planned out until number 10. holy crap.
'Lost With You'
(Bottles filled with my sanity)
=1.=
It was a good game – we kicked Tunisia’s butt right out of the Cup with a flourish of red and flailing arms and teeth as we grinned. Torres slid that ball so slick into the keep we all had to look twice before realizing we had made a goal. Then Torres was throwing himself on the grass and sliding a few metres on the wetness and pushing his arms through air thick with victory and grinning up at the sky.
I ran to him; I was close, so I slid on my knees a few centimetres and threw my arms around his shoulders, smiling so wide that my cheeks burned; Raúl and Pernía were there as well and we were all embracing and then we were falling when Torres’ abdominal muscles couldn’t hold our weight any longer and Fábregas was catching us with his hands on Torres’ shoulders.
It was only later, after that elated feeling of winning and ecstasy that we were moving forward wore off that I was lying in bed after hours of celebration at four o’clock in the morning, and I couldn’t get my mind off of him.
And as my pesky mind began to wander in my restlessness, I kept seeing his face as he grinned up at the clouds and sun, smiling down upon him. His face, aglow with pleasure; arms raised in tribute, strong; skin tanned, sun kissed, freckled; his muscular torso showing through the red vinyl of our home kits. The silkiness of his neck and his long arms around me and his skin underneath my hands, hot from exertion – his eyes haunted me the most, though – lost in triumph and happiness, black, soft and endless.
That night, he haunted my dreams.
=2.=
It was after we lost the match against France that he became mesmerizing to me again. His black eyes hot with fury and unshed tears; his long, slender fingers clench and relax as he walks off the pitch. I follow him, rubbing my face with my hands, flinging my fingers through my hair because I am sweaty – I pat David on the back because he was playing hardest of all of us.
‘You led us out with glory,’ I whispered to him before I stepped into the showers. He is already there, standing under the cold spray of the shower head, the droplets dripping down his muscular back, sliding across his shoulders. He raises his arms and plunges his fingers through his wet hair, scratching and pulling. Suddenly he is taller, and I look down to see that he is shifting his weight from his heels to his toes. He balances there for a while, letting me see the contours of his legs and buttocks; then he is down on his heels again. He rolls back up and down a few more times, then I step into the shower and turn on the spray.
Later, I am in bed, trying to think of her, of my girlfriend, of the woman I love, of what she smells like – all I can smell is the grass and the saltiness of tears. I try to see her face and her smile but all that keeps filling my mind is his freckles and his boyish grin.
=3.=
We are back in Spain and I am sitting in our apartment in Madrid. Nagore is out with her mother, claiming to ‘need a break’ after staying in bed all morning.
I let her go.
I was watching a match on the television – I don’t remember who was playing, because I had settled down for about three minutes when my mobile rang. I look at it for a moment, watching it ring, then pick it up.
‘Diga.’
‘Alonso?’
My heart stopped for just a quick second – a second that felt like a lifetime – my eyes widened; then my heart was beating again, wildly against my ribs, and my eyes darted around in their sockets, searching for something, anything, to fill the silence.
‘Torres?’ was the only thing I could come up with. Oh, yes, I thought to myself, that was pure genius. I closed my eyes and threw my free hand up in the air in frustration.
‘Ah, it is you,’ he answered.
‘Uh, yes, it is,’ I stammered.
‘Alonso?’
‘¿Sí?’
‘Are you busy?’
‘No, not at all.’
There was a pause and I heard him draw in a slow breath and tried not to imagine the rise and fall of his chest.
‘Are you alone?’
Frowning, I nodded, looking around the empty apartment; then realized that he wouldn’t be able to see my affirmative nod because he was on the phone; then said breathlessly into the mobile, ‘yes.’
Torres was silent again; when he next spoke, his voice was light.
‘Care for a drink?’
Unhesitatingly, I said yes.
=4.=
We met at a bar halfway between my apartment and his, near Majadahonda. We shook hands as a respectful gesture between teammates, but it was just for show.
We headed into the bar.
The air was filled with smoke so thick Torres actually coughed – Nagore smokes all the time, even when I tell her how bad it is for her and myself, so I was used to it. I followed his long-legged gait over to the bar and sat down on the stool next to him. The bar was crowded with people who wished to watch the match on the televisions in the corners of the room – too busy to notice two futbolístas in their midst. In our casual clothes, we blended in as well as we could.
I ordered a beer and Torres ordered Sangría, ‘just to be different,’ he tells me with a quick grin. I smile back automatically as my breathing speeds up and my brain immediately commits it to memory in the file bin for ‘torturing me later’. I drank my beer and he finished his Sangría and we sat at the bar, holding onto our empty glasses and our money and our sanity for a bit longer; then I threw down 20€ for the drinks and we left the money and the bottles on the bar as we headed out – behind us, the bar was screeching for their team.
=5.=
Symbolically speaking, we left our sanity at the bar with our empty glasses – the booze we ingested is now swimming through our veins and making our emotions and feelings more visible.
For example, my desire for him, displayed for everyone to see as we hurry back to my empty apartment.
Most mortifying of all is when he glances down and his eyebrows shoot up; he tears his gaze away after a while to grin down at me quite cheekily.
(I sure am learning a lot from Steven – I don’t think I’ve ever used that word until now, it’s always been his word. I wonder how he’d feel if he knew I was using it to describe Torres.)
‘Well, we’d better get there fast, before you explode.’
I flushed to my roots and walked faster.
We reached my apartment in record time; I opened the door to the building hurriedly and grabbed his large hand to tug him inside.
Even that small thing was a wonder – his hand was warm and soft, yet his palms and fingertips were calloused. And his tight grip on my hand; as if he was afraid that I would disappear; was causing my body to do the strangest things.
There’s a relatively fast lift that we could take up to my apartment on the top floor, but we decide to sprint up the stairs instead. I do it because I’m hoping the running will take the furiousness off my arousal – Torres does it because it’s faster.
When we get to my floor, I lead him to my door where I promptly shove his long, lean body against the wood and press my overheating one to his.
We do not kiss – our breath mingles together in a cloud of heat as we pant with naught but passion. He is taller than I, and his eyes are molten obsidian as he stares down at me. His lips are open and his chest is heaving as he gasps for air. I gaze into his eyes, those eyes, then reach around him to open the door.
We stumble into my apartment in each others arms, his hands caressing my neck and face and shoulders, my fingers struggling with his clothes. I am pushing him along one way, towards my bedroom, and he is pushing me into the wall so he can gain control. He strips off my t-shirt and kisses my neck; my fingers are grasping at his shoulders and I’m pulling off his polo to toss it aside in contempt. His shoulders are slick with sweat and he grasps my hips to heft me up to wrap my legs around his waist.
‘Where is your bedroom?’ he growls in my ear; his voice is so husky, and he flicks his tongue out to lick behind me earlobe. My eyes disappear behind my eyelids as I struggle to comprehend his question.
‘T-through the doorway on your izquierda,’ I finally answer, my arms entwined around his neck, my hands stroking his back as he carries me to my bedroom. He kicks open the door and I kick it shut as his lips finally, finally claim mine.
When he sets me down, we immediately set to work on our remaining clothes. They are in the way and I want to touch him – him, his skin, hot from our kisses – he is wearing a belt around his designer jeans and my fingers are trembling so badly I fumble with the buckle. He is already lowering my jeans and he pushes my hands away to undo his belt, and we separate only to rid ourselves of our jeans.
I am wearing underwear underneath and Torres groans when he sees them, my arousal completely exposed yet still encased in the thin white fabric.
‘You wear too much clothes,’ he teases as his hands encircle my hips. His fingers dance over the top of my underwear, then I yelp as he tugs them off in one smooth motion.
‘It seems that you have done this before, yes?’ I ask, grinning down at him as he follows his fingers and kisses the top of my stomach. He presses one more kiss to the side of my abdominal muscles then smiles slowly, seductively up at me.
‘Oh, yes,’ was his answer. I tried not to shiver at his husky tone.
And then he kissed his way down my stomach and I was lost.
=6.=
It was two and a half hours later, and we were curled up on the couch, dressed in pairs of my shorts and sitting close to each other, waiting for Nagore to ring me. We were watching the recap of football news on Channel 9 and Torres was stroking my thigh languidly when my mobile rang.
‘Diga,’ I answer. Torres is now grabbing my knee and looking at me.
‘Xabi, I am going to stay at my mothers’ house tonight – we are going to Barcelona in la mañana, is that all right?’
Swallowing, I smile brilliantly at Torres – he grins back, and I try not to melt. My heart racing, I turn back to the mobile.
‘Whatever you do is fine with me, Nagore. I’m going to have a few drinks with the guys. Enjoy Barcelona and say hello to your mother.’
‘I will, and thank you, Xabi. I’ll see you in a few days.’
‘Adios.’
I pressed the red phone on the mobile and set it down with a small smile. Torres reached his hand over and, fingertips grasping my chin lightly, pulled my face over to stare into my eyes. He arched a brow in question and I answered by brushing my lips across his cheekbone.
He cups his hands around my jaw and kisses me softly, tantalizingly, and soon I have my fingers in his hair and am trying to pull him closer. My fingertips are stroking his neck and collarbone and in a few moments his hands are pulling me up by the hips to sit on his lap (it’s funny how he is the dominant one in my house, when I am the older one and I know full well that it was I who desired him first – but still, it seems that I am always the partner to give in, to succumb. After all, the person who opened this door for me always took pleasure in taking me and never, ever gave me the same power – why should Torres be any different from Steven fucking Gerrard, anyhow?). He is nuzzling my neck now, and as he gently bites the skin behind my ear I am drawn out of my musing with a low groan.
Then he is standing with me in his arms and I can plainly feel his arousal digging into my backside and we are lost in each other once again.
=7.=
In my mind, I am somehow aware that the phone is ringing, but I do not get up to answer it. It doesn’t sound like my mobile, so it must be the house phone. If it is, they can leave a message, whoever it is that is calling this bloody early.
(Goodness, I am sounding more and more like Steven every day. He’ll be happy to hear that he’s influencing me so much.)
Vaguely, I register that the bed is moving, but at first I think it is Nagore and hope that she thinks I am asleep. Then she is getting off the bed and standing to look down at me and she is a hell of a lot taller than I last remember her being. Then she speaks and I remember what happened last night that has made my butt so sore. (Yes, I just realized that.)
‘Xabi, your phone is ringing, maybe it is Nagore?’
Torres. Nombre de Dios, I had forgotten. Now I wonder how I ever could. (Forget. How could I? Dios.)
Slowly, I raise myself from the bed and rub a hand over my face, wondering why Torres didn’t leave when he had the chance, but then I shoot a glance up to him and see that he is smiling down at me, naked, and glowing like some sort of dios. He reaches a hand out to me and pulls me off the bed and onto him. His arms wrap around me as he kisses me.
‘Buenos días,’ he murmurs into my lips. Then his hand is on my butt and he pushes me towards the door. ‘Now go answer your phone. I will go take a shower – perhaps after you have finished, you join me?’
My mouth dry, I run to the phone as Torres’ laughter follows me. I catch it just in time and press the receiver to my ear.
‘Diga.’
‘Xabi?’
It is not Nagore, unless she has had a sex change
‘Yes? Who is this?’
‘…It’s the Dalai Lama.’
I take the receiver away from my ear to stare into it, then return it to its former position, my brows furrowed.
‘Who?’
‘It’s Steven, you bloody twit. Who the hell did you think it was? I’m talkin’ to ye in English for Cris’ sake! Who else in Spain does that?’
For a moment, I am hurt – he is yelling at me for no reason, and Dios, it is early and he expects me to automatically know who is on the phone? He expects too much. (Always has, actually. Wants me to spend our days off with him, wants me to blow off a day with Nagore to be with him, well guess what? I must keep up appearances as well – if he has to get married, I have to spend a fucking day with my girlfriend, and that’s that.)
‘I am sorry, Steven. I did not realize it was you. It is very early in Madrid.’
‘Not that bleeding early!’ he barks. Then his voice turns suspicious. ‘Unless you were up late fucking. Is that what you were doing? Fucking your girlfriend?’
My mouth hangs open and my eyes are wide, then I slam the phone down without a word and go to join Torres in the shower. At least someone is nice to me early in the morning. (Usually I am used to being yelled at – Nagore is not a morning person and I … well, I am. I get up at six thirty and she yells at me to stop making such loud noises. But for him to be insulting her and yelling at me for no reason at all was not going to fly.)
When I go through the open door to the bathroom, Torres is sticking his head out of the shower curtain and grinning at me, looking fantastic. His skin is radiant and his eyes are glowing a dark brown, like rich, dark, melted chocolate. His lips are bruised and damp and I kiss him again as I step into the welcoming shower with him.
He takes my shampoo in hand and squirts a ton of it onto my head and cups my face to kiss me again. We cannot seem to stop this, this kissing thing that suddenly seems so sweet and sexy with him (but never with Steven. We’ve only kissed a couple of times, one of them in public, which is the one Nagore can never really forget.) and then his hands are in my hair and he is rubbing the shampoo in.
After about ten minutes, the bathroom was filled with steam, and the water was cold.
=8.=
It’s Sunday and we have nowhere to go. Torres has already called Olalla to tell her that he has stayed with a teammate and not to worry about him for the day. She was going to spend the day with some old friends. And Nagore was in Barcelona with her mother, visiting some friends as well – she called me at around nine. The home phone and my mobile have both been going crazy with his calls, probably out to yell at me again or try to apologize, but he’s just going to have to wait.
Now it is noon, and we are on the roof underneath the canopy, passing a ball around, careful not to let it over the edge. Torres has already done that once and he didn’t like going down the stairs, then back up the stairs to retrieve one football.
In a couple of hours it would be lunchtime, and I asked him if he could cook.
‘Who, me?’ he asked, incredulous. I grinned at him.
‘Yes. Can you cook?’
‘Absolutely not,’ he laughed, shaking his head. ‘I am a horrible cook. If you would like, my parents do not live far from here, I am sure she would love to cook for us.’
‘As would my parents – but what do we say? “Hola, Mamá, this is my teammate Torres from the futbol team, do you recognize him? They call him El Niño, but when we were jodiendo last night he was all of his twenty-two years, and then some”?’
Laughing out loud now, Torres presses his lips to mine and pulls our bodies together in the shade of the canopy.
‘I do not think that would be very appropriate for your Mamá to hear from her son.’
‘Then what do you suppose we should do?’
Frowning in thought, Torres strokes the length of my back leisurely. (He is fond of idle caresses, I see, as my thoughts drift back to when he was stroking my thigh the night before.) A million and one emotions pass through his dark eyes but one would not notice them if they had not been looking for them. Finally, he presses his lips to my forehead.
‘And you, Xabi? Can you cook?’ he asks, thumping our foreheads together lightly and staring into my eyes.
‘Maybe a little,’ I admit shyly (Goodness, am I being shy with Fernando Torres? ‘El Niño?’ What in fuck’s sake – another Steven phrase – is this?).
‘How much is “a little”?’ he murmurs, pressing our lips together softly (and I am reminded of just why I am shy with him – his tenderness is most often times unexpected because he is so aggressive when ever I see him on the pitch). He grins at me and, licking my lips, I reply with a smile.
‘Enough to keep me alive,’ I say, and he kisses me in response, stroking my mouth with his long tongue. I moan into his mouth and he angles my head to kiss me harder. He pushes me backwards and we almost tumble over as I step over the football. He kicks it aside without looking or even stopping and pulls my shirt off smoothly.
His lips leaving my mouth for a quick second, I turn my head to the side to get air into my deflated lungs.
‘Are we going to do it here?’ I whisper as he kisses my collarbone.
‘What is wrong with here?’ he murmurs back, pressing his face into my neck and dragging it upwards so his lips are by my cheekbone. I shiver, and his arms are around my waist, holding me against him.
‘We are outside,’ I protest weakly, as he has made me wet rice in his hands with just a few simple caresses, ‘and anyone from the building can just walk up and interrupt our little get-together.’
This excuse was stronger, and Torres stops stroking my back to look into my eyes. Our breaths mingle together, and then he gently lets me go and retrieves the ball from where he had kicked it. He kicks it into his hands and smiles over at me (to tell me he has forgiven me for stopping him?).
‘Then lets play ball,’ he says, and head butt’s it over to me. I balance it on my chest for a few seconds, then bounce it to my knee and scissor kick it back to him. He attempts to head it again, but miscalculates and the ball sails over the side of the roof and we both watch it fall to the ground far below. A group of teenagers are there and they all exclaim as the ball falls into their posse – they then begin to play, not even wondering to its former whereabouts.
I toss a glance over at Torres to see that he is grinning down at them, his arms crossed over his chest and his face radiant. He meets my eyes and uncrosses his arms to take my hand.
‘Now that we have nothing else to do…’ he mutters into my ear, and he drags me (though I went quite willingly, I assure you) to the door to the roof and leads me down the stairs to my apartment.
‘You know your way around here better than I do,’ I tease quietly, surprised at the thrill that small revelation brought me. He tosses a smile that could give contest to the sun over his shoulder at me and pushes me up against the door to shut it. Reaching around me, he locks the door with a quick flick of his fingers and soon we are attached at the lips again.
=9.=
It is two thirty when we finally get out of bed to find some food. He takes some pickles and olives out of the refrigerator to snack on while I make us some rice and chicken that my mother used to make for me when I was a child. At three o’clock everything is ready and we bring the food to the dining room table to eat.
I am anxious, actually anxious to see what he thought of my feeble excuse of food and cooking. I know my skills are everywhere else but culinary arts but I’m not paid to be a chef.
He sticks his fork into the yellow rice and brings it to his mouth. I am holding my breath now and this is getting right ridiculous. He chews silently, staring at me, knowing that I am waiting for his opinion.
He swallows audibly. Answering my unasked question, he furrows his brow in thought.
‘It’s burnt,’ he says. Closing my eyes, I nod.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Xabi.’
I hear laughter in his voice and I open my eyes to see his smiling face, bent a little to try and look into my eyes. I am confused, and I frown into his laughing face.
‘What –‘
‘I was teasing you,’ he says, and reaches over a hand to grasp mine and bring it to his lips.
‘You are fun to tease, especially when you are so serious,’ he tells me.
‘Well then,’ I say dryly, arching a brow at his chuckles, ‘what do you really think of my cooking?’
Looking at me seriously for a few moments, he chews his cheeks in thought, then glances down at the rice and chicken before raising his eyes to me.
‘Some of the best I’ve had in a while,’ he assures me, his face serious except for his eyes, which were still dancing in merriment.
It has just occurred to me that I have never seen Torres like this before, teasing, laughing, completely at ease. His demeanor is making me at ease as well, and I am not afraid to show him the weak sides of me that no one has ever seen. This may be because I know that no one has ever seen this light side of him, either – he masks it, like I do. Maybe that is why we are so happy together. It has got me thinking that perhaps we should do this more often, and I tell him so. He stares at me for a second, then a smile slowly grows across his face and he bends his head to laugh into the rice. He raises his eyes to me from the downward position of his head, and they are alight.
‘I would love that, Xabi,’ he says, and I feel my face positively heat up and his voice saying my name sounds like a caress on the base of my spine.
‘As would I,’ I mumble into my wine. He is silent, watching me for a second, then grins at his fork.
‘It’s a date, then,’ he says. I raise surprised eyes to his and he flashes me another smile, warm enough to make my ears and neck flush yet again. He sees this and laughs out loud.
‘I hate you,’ I mutter, trying to stop my lips from smiling back.
‘No, you don’t,’ he counters happily, and piles more rice on his fork. When he looks back up at me, he frowns.
‘What?’ I say after he is silent for a few moments, staring at me. I feel all fluttery and wonder what he is thinking.
‘I was just… you look so happy,’ he murmurs, and, to my utter shock, his cheeks take on a rosy hue over the adorable freckles and then there is laughter and it takes me a few moments to realize it is mine.
‘What are you laughing at?’ he huffs, trying to conceal his smile.
‘I am laughing at you, young one,’ I say, still chuckling. ‘You are blushing because I am happy? Do I look sad all the time?’
It is his serious face that makes me stop laughing.
‘Sometimes, you do,’ he tells me.
He is so serious, and his obsidian orbs are staring straight into mine and I can see the worry buried deep in their depths. Worry for me? I swallow a piece of chicken and down some wine, then answer him truthfully.
‘I am a serious man, Torres. And I am happy because you are eating my horrible cooking,’ I add, to make him smile – my attempt has failed, for he is now staring at me in a strange way.
I arch a brow at him in question, but he simply resumes eating (to my pleasure) and does not explain the almost melancholy look in his beautiful eyes that made my heart ache.
=10.=
We are lying in my bed in our shorts, having abandoned the shirts because it is hot. It is almost 30°C outside, so we are half naked and not doing anything to make ourselves cool. My room does not have air condition, because Nagore thinks it is ‘unnatural’. The only rooms that have it are the living room and the dining room, but Torres wants to stay in here so that we may lie together instead of on opposite sides of the room.
‘Would you like to take another shower?’ I ask him after a while, thinking maybe if we take a cold shower it will take the harshness off of the heat. He says nothing and stares up at the ceiling.
Sighing, I lift my hands up above my head to stretch out my wrists, and then his hands are up there as well and our fingers are intertwined. I glance to the side and see the corded muscles in his arms hold our fingers up and I feel desire stir in my groin again. (It seems that no matter how many times he takes me, it is still not enough. Maybe this is the beginning of something? Until World Cup ends at least, for then he is here in Madrid and I am far, far away, in Liverpool with the cold and taken Steven and bubbly Luis for company).
It is a while before he speaks to me. Even then, he is quiet, so quiet I almost do not hear him.
‘Why do you call me that?’ he asks, keeping his eyes on our entwined hands above us. I turn my head to stare at his profile, frowning at his question.
‘Why do I call you what?’ I ask, confused at his behaviour after he had been so attentive earlier.
He stares at our hands, concentrating hard on the contours of our fingers and the perfect fit of our palms. Finally, he whispers his answer.
‘Torres,’ he mutters, ‘you call me Torres.’
I arch one brow, wondering where this was coming from and what the fuck he was talking about.
‘Yes, because that is your name,’ I reply, ‘it is what I always call you.’
‘I know,’ he bites out, ‘at practice, that is what you call me.’ Flipping onto his elbow gracefully, his eyes now meet mine as he stares down at me. ‘But we are not at practice, Xabi. We are in your home, lying in your bed after fucking all night long and most of the day!’ He is leaning over me now, and his hurt obsidian eyes are making my chest ache.
‘Torres, I –‘
‘My name is Fernando,’ he cuts in heatedly, his eyes bright. I can feel my eyes widen and try to keep my lips from trembling.
‘I am… I’m sorry,’ I whisper, wanting to kiss the hurt away from his brow and the hardness away from his mouth, but he is now on top of me, his hands cupping my face.
‘Say it, Xabi. Say my name, just say it, please.’ He is begging me now and I wait for him to get close to kissing me before I oblige.
‘Fernando,’ I breathe onto his lips and he moans as he covers my mouth with his.
And I have to admit, his name sounds so good, so right on my lips it is hard not to whisper his name again and again just to hear it.
But after he closed his lips around the pulse at my neck, I gave up the restraint and moaned his name over and over.
Soon, we were overheating in the hot, hot bedroom, so I moved him into the shower stall. He has his arms (long, strong, slender, beautiful) wrapped around my neck and I hold him like a princess. He is nuzzling his nose and lips into my neck and I almost walk into the wall when he suckles the skin there.
I lower him to his feet once we are in the bathroom and he looks so sweet and flushed and happy. I push him against the wall and kiss the side of his mouth.
‘Fernando,’ I whisper into his lips. I kiss the other side then say his name again. (And I can’t help but think of how vulnerable he looks now that I am calling him by name – like some crazy twenty-two year old who is in love with life and love and it makes me love him all the more.)
We are panting and he is lovely and I spin the knob of the cold water as I turn Fernando around to kiss his shoulder blades. He’s got his cheek pressed against the wet tile and his body shudders gently in pleasure as I enter him slowly and smoothly.
=11.=
I am in shock. This is the first time I have ever taken someone (besides Nagore – Steven is always the “man” and I’m always left sore afterwards) – but not tonight. Tonight, I have made Fernando Torres mine as much as he has made me his.
We are sitting around the table again and he asks me why I am so ‘chipper.’ I smirk at him for a second, then decide to answer him seriously.
‘I have been taken many times,’ I say, ‘but this is the first time someone has ever let me…’ I struggle to finish the confession, but Fernando (Fernando, Fernando, Fernando. I get so much happiness from saying it, even in my thoughts.) leans over to kiss me, deeply, as if showing me his soul in his kiss.
He pulls away slightly and looks at me with warm, glowing eyes. He gave a little smile.
‘Those who have taken you…’ he begins, then his voice falters and he blushes (and it is so cute.). I bring my fingers up to his face and caress his jaw gently, as if coaxing his words out of him. Raising his soft, dark brown eyes, what he tells me takes my breath away.
‘Xabi, those who have taken you – Steven Gerrard? They do not trust you enough to have you make them theirs – only the other way around. They don’t want to lay their hearts and hopes and souls into your capable hands even when you do them the courtesy. They take what you offer and offer nothing in return.’ And I am not like that. But he does not say it.
I just know.
He kisses me sweetly and rubs the tear that trickles rogue down my cheek back into my skin and kisses my eyelids, telling me it is okay. (Tear? Where did that come from? And since when do I cry?)
Afterwards, (no, we did not do it on the table… we did it on the floor next to the table) he carries me (hey, I am the shorter of the two of us) to the couch and lies behind me, his chest pressed to my back and his arm around my waist. His face is in my hair and I don’t ever, ever want this to end. I tell him so.
He presses tiny kisses into my hair, rubbing my belly with his hand gently.
‘I know, querido, neither do I,’ he murmurs. I bite my lip to keep in the despair now curling in my chest that had wished to be vocalized.
‘But it has to,’ I finish for him, saying what he does not. He rests his forehead on the back of my head and sighs.
‘I have a contract with Atlético until 2008,’ he explains softly. ‘They are my team, my home.’
‘I know,’ I say, and my voice cracks so I vow that the next time I speak, I will whisper so that he cannot hear me.
‘And you are at Liverpool,’ he adds, reminding me of Rafa (brilliant Rafa) and Pepe (kind and goofy Pepe) and Luis (crazy Luis) and Steven. The one man whom I didn’t want to think about while here with Fernando. The one man I can never stop thinking about, even if I am with Fernando.
As if on cue, the phone rings. I ignore it.
‘Xabi…’
‘Leave it. I don’t want to answer it,’ I tell him, the honesty in my words showing through the hoarse sound of my voice. ‘I just want to lie here with you.’
He sighs deeply from behind me but says nothing. I can feel his eyes on me, watching me, observing me, wondering. Wondering.
The ringing stops, and we are both still and silent, like statues. I know he wants to ask who it is that keeps calling (Steven has been calling on and off all day since I hung up on him.) but he keeps quiet, waiting to see if I will tell him.
I do. Because I trust him. And in telling him this, he knows. Without saying anything. Just as he did to me earlier. (We communicate without words – that takes talent.)
‘Steven? Steven Gerrard?’
‘The very same.’
‘Why is he calling?’ Fernando sounds curious and I mimic his deep sigh from before.
‘He is calling because I hung up on him this morning.’
Fernando scoffs behind me and I twist my head around to look at him. Seeing my expression, he laughs.
‘Why did you hang up on him, Xabi?’ he finally asks. I watch him for a moment, waiting to see if he really wanted to know. He arches his eyebrows in question.
‘I hung up on him because he insulted Nagore and he was being a snit to me,’ I tell him, ‘and I don’t take very well to people insulting my girlfriend. And he was acting like a forsaken wife. I didn’t feel like reminding him that he’s getting married to Alex – not me. But mostly because he insulted Nagore.’
‘Ah,’ Fernando says softly. ‘I don’t like it when people are nasty to my girlfriend either. Even if I don’t spend a lot of time with her, I still care about her. Sergio tried to make fun of Olalla once, and I punched him in the stomach.’
I laugh out loud at this, imagining Sergio’s pretty face when he got punched by his friend and sometimes lover.
‘Well, I could not punch him over the phone, so I hung up, thinking he would get the message.’
‘Ah. I see.’
‘At least someone does.’
‘Xabi, I don’t think he’s getting it.’
‘Obviously not.’
‘Maybe next time you call him some names, yes?’
‘Perhaps next time I threaten to castrate him. Always fun.’
The phone rings again, and we both giggle like children as it rings and rings and rings. And I know at this moment that everything, everything I once knew has changed. I know that Fernando and I will mean more to each other than to anyone else. I know that Steven will never again touch me as Fernando has; I know that things at Liverpool will be very… chilly in the locker rooms this season.
And I know that I will be making frequent trips to Madrid – and if anyone asks, to visit my parents, of course!
Fin.
a/niii: about the random spanish words: i didn't want to do the whole thing in spanish and i wanted to add random spanish. translations are below.
diga - 'speak' (i.c.) (the spanish don't say hello, they answer with commands like speak or talk)
futbolístas - 'footballers, football players' (n)
Sangría - a spanish alcoholic drink with lemons and all kinds of other stuff. my grandparents make it.
izquierda - 'left'
la mañana - 'the morning' (so nagore says, 'we are going to Barcelona in the morning')
adios - 'goodbye' (literally, 'to god', so every time you say goodbye in spanish you are praising god)
dios - 'god'
nombre de dios - 'name of god'
buenos días - 'good morning'
jodiendo - 'fucking' (from 'to fuck', joder - i just conjugated it; don't know if it's right, but it fit)
querido - 'sweetheart'; also used as 'dear' in letters (dear john... querido john...)
--
i think that's it. if i forget one someone will point it out.
Friend?
by:
omgorgasmpairing: Fernando Torres/Xabi Alonso, hinted Steven Gerrard/Xabi Alonso, mentions of Nagore/Xabi, Steven/Alex and Fernando/Olalla
rating: R for language and sex
disclaimer: this never happened.
author's note: so this is my take on why Stevie and Xabi are not making out with each other on the pitch any more. this fic came to me when i was googling Xabi with a non-footie friend in my rl (regaime who is to thank for the title and for cheering me on while i was writing it) and i saw a picture that i describe in the first part of this 11-part fic. also, this pairing has been a sort of 'personal otp' for me (it pairs together my two favourite players - of course i'm up for it!), so i'm sorry for every Stevie/Xabi fan (i myself included) and enjoy.
a/nii: i just realized that i didn't get to the one part of this story i actually planned out until number 10. holy crap.
'Lost With You'
(Bottles filled with my sanity)
=1.=
It was a good game – we kicked Tunisia’s butt right out of the Cup with a flourish of red and flailing arms and teeth as we grinned. Torres slid that ball so slick into the keep we all had to look twice before realizing we had made a goal. Then Torres was throwing himself on the grass and sliding a few metres on the wetness and pushing his arms through air thick with victory and grinning up at the sky.
I ran to him; I was close, so I slid on my knees a few centimetres and threw my arms around his shoulders, smiling so wide that my cheeks burned; Raúl and Pernía were there as well and we were all embracing and then we were falling when Torres’ abdominal muscles couldn’t hold our weight any longer and Fábregas was catching us with his hands on Torres’ shoulders.
It was only later, after that elated feeling of winning and ecstasy that we were moving forward wore off that I was lying in bed after hours of celebration at four o’clock in the morning, and I couldn’t get my mind off of him.
And as my pesky mind began to wander in my restlessness, I kept seeing his face as he grinned up at the clouds and sun, smiling down upon him. His face, aglow with pleasure; arms raised in tribute, strong; skin tanned, sun kissed, freckled; his muscular torso showing through the red vinyl of our home kits. The silkiness of his neck and his long arms around me and his skin underneath my hands, hot from exertion – his eyes haunted me the most, though – lost in triumph and happiness, black, soft and endless.
That night, he haunted my dreams.
=2.=
It was after we lost the match against France that he became mesmerizing to me again. His black eyes hot with fury and unshed tears; his long, slender fingers clench and relax as he walks off the pitch. I follow him, rubbing my face with my hands, flinging my fingers through my hair because I am sweaty – I pat David on the back because he was playing hardest of all of us.
‘You led us out with glory,’ I whispered to him before I stepped into the showers. He is already there, standing under the cold spray of the shower head, the droplets dripping down his muscular back, sliding across his shoulders. He raises his arms and plunges his fingers through his wet hair, scratching and pulling. Suddenly he is taller, and I look down to see that he is shifting his weight from his heels to his toes. He balances there for a while, letting me see the contours of his legs and buttocks; then he is down on his heels again. He rolls back up and down a few more times, then I step into the shower and turn on the spray.
Later, I am in bed, trying to think of her, of my girlfriend, of the woman I love, of what she smells like – all I can smell is the grass and the saltiness of tears. I try to see her face and her smile but all that keeps filling my mind is his freckles and his boyish grin.
=3.=
We are back in Spain and I am sitting in our apartment in Madrid. Nagore is out with her mother, claiming to ‘need a break’ after staying in bed all morning.
I let her go.
I was watching a match on the television – I don’t remember who was playing, because I had settled down for about three minutes when my mobile rang. I look at it for a moment, watching it ring, then pick it up.
‘Diga.’
‘Alonso?’
My heart stopped for just a quick second – a second that felt like a lifetime – my eyes widened; then my heart was beating again, wildly against my ribs, and my eyes darted around in their sockets, searching for something, anything, to fill the silence.
‘Torres?’ was the only thing I could come up with. Oh, yes, I thought to myself, that was pure genius. I closed my eyes and threw my free hand up in the air in frustration.
‘Ah, it is you,’ he answered.
‘Uh, yes, it is,’ I stammered.
‘Alonso?’
‘¿Sí?’
‘Are you busy?’
‘No, not at all.’
There was a pause and I heard him draw in a slow breath and tried not to imagine the rise and fall of his chest.
‘Are you alone?’
Frowning, I nodded, looking around the empty apartment; then realized that he wouldn’t be able to see my affirmative nod because he was on the phone; then said breathlessly into the mobile, ‘yes.’
Torres was silent again; when he next spoke, his voice was light.
‘Care for a drink?’
Unhesitatingly, I said yes.
=4.=
We met at a bar halfway between my apartment and his, near Majadahonda. We shook hands as a respectful gesture between teammates, but it was just for show.
We headed into the bar.
The air was filled with smoke so thick Torres actually coughed – Nagore smokes all the time, even when I tell her how bad it is for her and myself, so I was used to it. I followed his long-legged gait over to the bar and sat down on the stool next to him. The bar was crowded with people who wished to watch the match on the televisions in the corners of the room – too busy to notice two futbolístas in their midst. In our casual clothes, we blended in as well as we could.
I ordered a beer and Torres ordered Sangría, ‘just to be different,’ he tells me with a quick grin. I smile back automatically as my breathing speeds up and my brain immediately commits it to memory in the file bin for ‘torturing me later’. I drank my beer and he finished his Sangría and we sat at the bar, holding onto our empty glasses and our money and our sanity for a bit longer; then I threw down 20€ for the drinks and we left the money and the bottles on the bar as we headed out – behind us, the bar was screeching for their team.
=5.=
Symbolically speaking, we left our sanity at the bar with our empty glasses – the booze we ingested is now swimming through our veins and making our emotions and feelings more visible.
For example, my desire for him, displayed for everyone to see as we hurry back to my empty apartment.
Most mortifying of all is when he glances down and his eyebrows shoot up; he tears his gaze away after a while to grin down at me quite cheekily.
(I sure am learning a lot from Steven – I don’t think I’ve ever used that word until now, it’s always been his word. I wonder how he’d feel if he knew I was using it to describe Torres.)
‘Well, we’d better get there fast, before you explode.’
I flushed to my roots and walked faster.
We reached my apartment in record time; I opened the door to the building hurriedly and grabbed his large hand to tug him inside.
Even that small thing was a wonder – his hand was warm and soft, yet his palms and fingertips were calloused. And his tight grip on my hand; as if he was afraid that I would disappear; was causing my body to do the strangest things.
There’s a relatively fast lift that we could take up to my apartment on the top floor, but we decide to sprint up the stairs instead. I do it because I’m hoping the running will take the furiousness off my arousal – Torres does it because it’s faster.
When we get to my floor, I lead him to my door where I promptly shove his long, lean body against the wood and press my overheating one to his.
We do not kiss – our breath mingles together in a cloud of heat as we pant with naught but passion. He is taller than I, and his eyes are molten obsidian as he stares down at me. His lips are open and his chest is heaving as he gasps for air. I gaze into his eyes, those eyes, then reach around him to open the door.
We stumble into my apartment in each others arms, his hands caressing my neck and face and shoulders, my fingers struggling with his clothes. I am pushing him along one way, towards my bedroom, and he is pushing me into the wall so he can gain control. He strips off my t-shirt and kisses my neck; my fingers are grasping at his shoulders and I’m pulling off his polo to toss it aside in contempt. His shoulders are slick with sweat and he grasps my hips to heft me up to wrap my legs around his waist.
‘Where is your bedroom?’ he growls in my ear; his voice is so husky, and he flicks his tongue out to lick behind me earlobe. My eyes disappear behind my eyelids as I struggle to comprehend his question.
‘T-through the doorway on your izquierda,’ I finally answer, my arms entwined around his neck, my hands stroking his back as he carries me to my bedroom. He kicks open the door and I kick it shut as his lips finally, finally claim mine.
When he sets me down, we immediately set to work on our remaining clothes. They are in the way and I want to touch him – him, his skin, hot from our kisses – he is wearing a belt around his designer jeans and my fingers are trembling so badly I fumble with the buckle. He is already lowering my jeans and he pushes my hands away to undo his belt, and we separate only to rid ourselves of our jeans.
I am wearing underwear underneath and Torres groans when he sees them, my arousal completely exposed yet still encased in the thin white fabric.
‘You wear too much clothes,’ he teases as his hands encircle my hips. His fingers dance over the top of my underwear, then I yelp as he tugs them off in one smooth motion.
‘It seems that you have done this before, yes?’ I ask, grinning down at him as he follows his fingers and kisses the top of my stomach. He presses one more kiss to the side of my abdominal muscles then smiles slowly, seductively up at me.
‘Oh, yes,’ was his answer. I tried not to shiver at his husky tone.
And then he kissed his way down my stomach and I was lost.
=6.=
It was two and a half hours later, and we were curled up on the couch, dressed in pairs of my shorts and sitting close to each other, waiting for Nagore to ring me. We were watching the recap of football news on Channel 9 and Torres was stroking my thigh languidly when my mobile rang.
‘Diga,’ I answer. Torres is now grabbing my knee and looking at me.
‘Xabi, I am going to stay at my mothers’ house tonight – we are going to Barcelona in la mañana, is that all right?’
Swallowing, I smile brilliantly at Torres – he grins back, and I try not to melt. My heart racing, I turn back to the mobile.
‘Whatever you do is fine with me, Nagore. I’m going to have a few drinks with the guys. Enjoy Barcelona and say hello to your mother.’
‘I will, and thank you, Xabi. I’ll see you in a few days.’
‘Adios.’
I pressed the red phone on the mobile and set it down with a small smile. Torres reached his hand over and, fingertips grasping my chin lightly, pulled my face over to stare into my eyes. He arched a brow in question and I answered by brushing my lips across his cheekbone.
He cups his hands around my jaw and kisses me softly, tantalizingly, and soon I have my fingers in his hair and am trying to pull him closer. My fingertips are stroking his neck and collarbone and in a few moments his hands are pulling me up by the hips to sit on his lap (it’s funny how he is the dominant one in my house, when I am the older one and I know full well that it was I who desired him first – but still, it seems that I am always the partner to give in, to succumb. After all, the person who opened this door for me always took pleasure in taking me and never, ever gave me the same power – why should Torres be any different from Steven fucking Gerrard, anyhow?). He is nuzzling my neck now, and as he gently bites the skin behind my ear I am drawn out of my musing with a low groan.
Then he is standing with me in his arms and I can plainly feel his arousal digging into my backside and we are lost in each other once again.
=7.=
In my mind, I am somehow aware that the phone is ringing, but I do not get up to answer it. It doesn’t sound like my mobile, so it must be the house phone. If it is, they can leave a message, whoever it is that is calling this bloody early.
(Goodness, I am sounding more and more like Steven every day. He’ll be happy to hear that he’s influencing me so much.)
Vaguely, I register that the bed is moving, but at first I think it is Nagore and hope that she thinks I am asleep. Then she is getting off the bed and standing to look down at me and she is a hell of a lot taller than I last remember her being. Then she speaks and I remember what happened last night that has made my butt so sore. (Yes, I just realized that.)
‘Xabi, your phone is ringing, maybe it is Nagore?’
Torres. Nombre de Dios, I had forgotten. Now I wonder how I ever could. (Forget. How could I? Dios.)
Slowly, I raise myself from the bed and rub a hand over my face, wondering why Torres didn’t leave when he had the chance, but then I shoot a glance up to him and see that he is smiling down at me, naked, and glowing like some sort of dios. He reaches a hand out to me and pulls me off the bed and onto him. His arms wrap around me as he kisses me.
‘Buenos días,’ he murmurs into my lips. Then his hand is on my butt and he pushes me towards the door. ‘Now go answer your phone. I will go take a shower – perhaps after you have finished, you join me?’
My mouth dry, I run to the phone as Torres’ laughter follows me. I catch it just in time and press the receiver to my ear.
‘Diga.’
‘Xabi?’
It is not Nagore, unless she has had a sex change
‘Yes? Who is this?’
‘…It’s the Dalai Lama.’
I take the receiver away from my ear to stare into it, then return it to its former position, my brows furrowed.
‘Who?’
‘It’s Steven, you bloody twit. Who the hell did you think it was? I’m talkin’ to ye in English for Cris’ sake! Who else in Spain does that?’
For a moment, I am hurt – he is yelling at me for no reason, and Dios, it is early and he expects me to automatically know who is on the phone? He expects too much. (Always has, actually. Wants me to spend our days off with him, wants me to blow off a day with Nagore to be with him, well guess what? I must keep up appearances as well – if he has to get married, I have to spend a fucking day with my girlfriend, and that’s that.)
‘I am sorry, Steven. I did not realize it was you. It is very early in Madrid.’
‘Not that bleeding early!’ he barks. Then his voice turns suspicious. ‘Unless you were up late fucking. Is that what you were doing? Fucking your girlfriend?’
My mouth hangs open and my eyes are wide, then I slam the phone down without a word and go to join Torres in the shower. At least someone is nice to me early in the morning. (Usually I am used to being yelled at – Nagore is not a morning person and I … well, I am. I get up at six thirty and she yells at me to stop making such loud noises. But for him to be insulting her and yelling at me for no reason at all was not going to fly.)
When I go through the open door to the bathroom, Torres is sticking his head out of the shower curtain and grinning at me, looking fantastic. His skin is radiant and his eyes are glowing a dark brown, like rich, dark, melted chocolate. His lips are bruised and damp and I kiss him again as I step into the welcoming shower with him.
He takes my shampoo in hand and squirts a ton of it onto my head and cups my face to kiss me again. We cannot seem to stop this, this kissing thing that suddenly seems so sweet and sexy with him (but never with Steven. We’ve only kissed a couple of times, one of them in public, which is the one Nagore can never really forget.) and then his hands are in my hair and he is rubbing the shampoo in.
After about ten minutes, the bathroom was filled with steam, and the water was cold.
=8.=
It’s Sunday and we have nowhere to go. Torres has already called Olalla to tell her that he has stayed with a teammate and not to worry about him for the day. She was going to spend the day with some old friends. And Nagore was in Barcelona with her mother, visiting some friends as well – she called me at around nine. The home phone and my mobile have both been going crazy with his calls, probably out to yell at me again or try to apologize, but he’s just going to have to wait.
Now it is noon, and we are on the roof underneath the canopy, passing a ball around, careful not to let it over the edge. Torres has already done that once and he didn’t like going down the stairs, then back up the stairs to retrieve one football.
In a couple of hours it would be lunchtime, and I asked him if he could cook.
‘Who, me?’ he asked, incredulous. I grinned at him.
‘Yes. Can you cook?’
‘Absolutely not,’ he laughed, shaking his head. ‘I am a horrible cook. If you would like, my parents do not live far from here, I am sure she would love to cook for us.’
‘As would my parents – but what do we say? “Hola, Mamá, this is my teammate Torres from the futbol team, do you recognize him? They call him El Niño, but when we were jodiendo last night he was all of his twenty-two years, and then some”?’
Laughing out loud now, Torres presses his lips to mine and pulls our bodies together in the shade of the canopy.
‘I do not think that would be very appropriate for your Mamá to hear from her son.’
‘Then what do you suppose we should do?’
Frowning in thought, Torres strokes the length of my back leisurely. (He is fond of idle caresses, I see, as my thoughts drift back to when he was stroking my thigh the night before.) A million and one emotions pass through his dark eyes but one would not notice them if they had not been looking for them. Finally, he presses his lips to my forehead.
‘And you, Xabi? Can you cook?’ he asks, thumping our foreheads together lightly and staring into my eyes.
‘Maybe a little,’ I admit shyly (Goodness, am I being shy with Fernando Torres? ‘El Niño?’ What in fuck’s sake – another Steven phrase – is this?).
‘How much is “a little”?’ he murmurs, pressing our lips together softly (and I am reminded of just why I am shy with him – his tenderness is most often times unexpected because he is so aggressive when ever I see him on the pitch). He grins at me and, licking my lips, I reply with a smile.
‘Enough to keep me alive,’ I say, and he kisses me in response, stroking my mouth with his long tongue. I moan into his mouth and he angles my head to kiss me harder. He pushes me backwards and we almost tumble over as I step over the football. He kicks it aside without looking or even stopping and pulls my shirt off smoothly.
His lips leaving my mouth for a quick second, I turn my head to the side to get air into my deflated lungs.
‘Are we going to do it here?’ I whisper as he kisses my collarbone.
‘What is wrong with here?’ he murmurs back, pressing his face into my neck and dragging it upwards so his lips are by my cheekbone. I shiver, and his arms are around my waist, holding me against him.
‘We are outside,’ I protest weakly, as he has made me wet rice in his hands with just a few simple caresses, ‘and anyone from the building can just walk up and interrupt our little get-together.’
This excuse was stronger, and Torres stops stroking my back to look into my eyes. Our breaths mingle together, and then he gently lets me go and retrieves the ball from where he had kicked it. He kicks it into his hands and smiles over at me (to tell me he has forgiven me for stopping him?).
‘Then lets play ball,’ he says, and head butt’s it over to me. I balance it on my chest for a few seconds, then bounce it to my knee and scissor kick it back to him. He attempts to head it again, but miscalculates and the ball sails over the side of the roof and we both watch it fall to the ground far below. A group of teenagers are there and they all exclaim as the ball falls into their posse – they then begin to play, not even wondering to its former whereabouts.
I toss a glance over at Torres to see that he is grinning down at them, his arms crossed over his chest and his face radiant. He meets my eyes and uncrosses his arms to take my hand.
‘Now that we have nothing else to do…’ he mutters into my ear, and he drags me (though I went quite willingly, I assure you) to the door to the roof and leads me down the stairs to my apartment.
‘You know your way around here better than I do,’ I tease quietly, surprised at the thrill that small revelation brought me. He tosses a smile that could give contest to the sun over his shoulder at me and pushes me up against the door to shut it. Reaching around me, he locks the door with a quick flick of his fingers and soon we are attached at the lips again.
=9.=
It is two thirty when we finally get out of bed to find some food. He takes some pickles and olives out of the refrigerator to snack on while I make us some rice and chicken that my mother used to make for me when I was a child. At three o’clock everything is ready and we bring the food to the dining room table to eat.
I am anxious, actually anxious to see what he thought of my feeble excuse of food and cooking. I know my skills are everywhere else but culinary arts but I’m not paid to be a chef.
He sticks his fork into the yellow rice and brings it to his mouth. I am holding my breath now and this is getting right ridiculous. He chews silently, staring at me, knowing that I am waiting for his opinion.
He swallows audibly. Answering my unasked question, he furrows his brow in thought.
‘It’s burnt,’ he says. Closing my eyes, I nod.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Xabi.’
I hear laughter in his voice and I open my eyes to see his smiling face, bent a little to try and look into my eyes. I am confused, and I frown into his laughing face.
‘What –‘
‘I was teasing you,’ he says, and reaches over a hand to grasp mine and bring it to his lips.
‘You are fun to tease, especially when you are so serious,’ he tells me.
‘Well then,’ I say dryly, arching a brow at his chuckles, ‘what do you really think of my cooking?’
Looking at me seriously for a few moments, he chews his cheeks in thought, then glances down at the rice and chicken before raising his eyes to me.
‘Some of the best I’ve had in a while,’ he assures me, his face serious except for his eyes, which were still dancing in merriment.
It has just occurred to me that I have never seen Torres like this before, teasing, laughing, completely at ease. His demeanor is making me at ease as well, and I am not afraid to show him the weak sides of me that no one has ever seen. This may be because I know that no one has ever seen this light side of him, either – he masks it, like I do. Maybe that is why we are so happy together. It has got me thinking that perhaps we should do this more often, and I tell him so. He stares at me for a second, then a smile slowly grows across his face and he bends his head to laugh into the rice. He raises his eyes to me from the downward position of his head, and they are alight.
‘I would love that, Xabi,’ he says, and I feel my face positively heat up and his voice saying my name sounds like a caress on the base of my spine.
‘As would I,’ I mumble into my wine. He is silent, watching me for a second, then grins at his fork.
‘It’s a date, then,’ he says. I raise surprised eyes to his and he flashes me another smile, warm enough to make my ears and neck flush yet again. He sees this and laughs out loud.
‘I hate you,’ I mutter, trying to stop my lips from smiling back.
‘No, you don’t,’ he counters happily, and piles more rice on his fork. When he looks back up at me, he frowns.
‘What?’ I say after he is silent for a few moments, staring at me. I feel all fluttery and wonder what he is thinking.
‘I was just… you look so happy,’ he murmurs, and, to my utter shock, his cheeks take on a rosy hue over the adorable freckles and then there is laughter and it takes me a few moments to realize it is mine.
‘What are you laughing at?’ he huffs, trying to conceal his smile.
‘I am laughing at you, young one,’ I say, still chuckling. ‘You are blushing because I am happy? Do I look sad all the time?’
It is his serious face that makes me stop laughing.
‘Sometimes, you do,’ he tells me.
He is so serious, and his obsidian orbs are staring straight into mine and I can see the worry buried deep in their depths. Worry for me? I swallow a piece of chicken and down some wine, then answer him truthfully.
‘I am a serious man, Torres. And I am happy because you are eating my horrible cooking,’ I add, to make him smile – my attempt has failed, for he is now staring at me in a strange way.
I arch a brow at him in question, but he simply resumes eating (to my pleasure) and does not explain the almost melancholy look in his beautiful eyes that made my heart ache.
=10.=
We are lying in my bed in our shorts, having abandoned the shirts because it is hot. It is almost 30°C outside, so we are half naked and not doing anything to make ourselves cool. My room does not have air condition, because Nagore thinks it is ‘unnatural’. The only rooms that have it are the living room and the dining room, but Torres wants to stay in here so that we may lie together instead of on opposite sides of the room.
‘Would you like to take another shower?’ I ask him after a while, thinking maybe if we take a cold shower it will take the harshness off of the heat. He says nothing and stares up at the ceiling.
Sighing, I lift my hands up above my head to stretch out my wrists, and then his hands are up there as well and our fingers are intertwined. I glance to the side and see the corded muscles in his arms hold our fingers up and I feel desire stir in my groin again. (It seems that no matter how many times he takes me, it is still not enough. Maybe this is the beginning of something? Until World Cup ends at least, for then he is here in Madrid and I am far, far away, in Liverpool with the cold and taken Steven and bubbly Luis for company).
It is a while before he speaks to me. Even then, he is quiet, so quiet I almost do not hear him.
‘Why do you call me that?’ he asks, keeping his eyes on our entwined hands above us. I turn my head to stare at his profile, frowning at his question.
‘Why do I call you what?’ I ask, confused at his behaviour after he had been so attentive earlier.
He stares at our hands, concentrating hard on the contours of our fingers and the perfect fit of our palms. Finally, he whispers his answer.
‘Torres,’ he mutters, ‘you call me Torres.’
I arch one brow, wondering where this was coming from and what the fuck he was talking about.
‘Yes, because that is your name,’ I reply, ‘it is what I always call you.’
‘I know,’ he bites out, ‘at practice, that is what you call me.’ Flipping onto his elbow gracefully, his eyes now meet mine as he stares down at me. ‘But we are not at practice, Xabi. We are in your home, lying in your bed after fucking all night long and most of the day!’ He is leaning over me now, and his hurt obsidian eyes are making my chest ache.
‘Torres, I –‘
‘My name is Fernando,’ he cuts in heatedly, his eyes bright. I can feel my eyes widen and try to keep my lips from trembling.
‘I am… I’m sorry,’ I whisper, wanting to kiss the hurt away from his brow and the hardness away from his mouth, but he is now on top of me, his hands cupping my face.
‘Say it, Xabi. Say my name, just say it, please.’ He is begging me now and I wait for him to get close to kissing me before I oblige.
‘Fernando,’ I breathe onto his lips and he moans as he covers my mouth with his.
And I have to admit, his name sounds so good, so right on my lips it is hard not to whisper his name again and again just to hear it.
But after he closed his lips around the pulse at my neck, I gave up the restraint and moaned his name over and over.
Soon, we were overheating in the hot, hot bedroom, so I moved him into the shower stall. He has his arms (long, strong, slender, beautiful) wrapped around my neck and I hold him like a princess. He is nuzzling his nose and lips into my neck and I almost walk into the wall when he suckles the skin there.
I lower him to his feet once we are in the bathroom and he looks so sweet and flushed and happy. I push him against the wall and kiss the side of his mouth.
‘Fernando,’ I whisper into his lips. I kiss the other side then say his name again. (And I can’t help but think of how vulnerable he looks now that I am calling him by name – like some crazy twenty-two year old who is in love with life and love and it makes me love him all the more.)
We are panting and he is lovely and I spin the knob of the cold water as I turn Fernando around to kiss his shoulder blades. He’s got his cheek pressed against the wet tile and his body shudders gently in pleasure as I enter him slowly and smoothly.
=11.=
I am in shock. This is the first time I have ever taken someone (besides Nagore – Steven is always the “man” and I’m always left sore afterwards) – but not tonight. Tonight, I have made Fernando Torres mine as much as he has made me his.
We are sitting around the table again and he asks me why I am so ‘chipper.’ I smirk at him for a second, then decide to answer him seriously.
‘I have been taken many times,’ I say, ‘but this is the first time someone has ever let me…’ I struggle to finish the confession, but Fernando (Fernando, Fernando, Fernando. I get so much happiness from saying it, even in my thoughts.) leans over to kiss me, deeply, as if showing me his soul in his kiss.
He pulls away slightly and looks at me with warm, glowing eyes. He gave a little smile.
‘Those who have taken you…’ he begins, then his voice falters and he blushes (and it is so cute.). I bring my fingers up to his face and caress his jaw gently, as if coaxing his words out of him. Raising his soft, dark brown eyes, what he tells me takes my breath away.
‘Xabi, those who have taken you – Steven Gerrard? They do not trust you enough to have you make them theirs – only the other way around. They don’t want to lay their hearts and hopes and souls into your capable hands even when you do them the courtesy. They take what you offer and offer nothing in return.’ And I am not like that. But he does not say it.
I just know.
He kisses me sweetly and rubs the tear that trickles rogue down my cheek back into my skin and kisses my eyelids, telling me it is okay. (Tear? Where did that come from? And since when do I cry?)
Afterwards, (no, we did not do it on the table… we did it on the floor next to the table) he carries me (hey, I am the shorter of the two of us) to the couch and lies behind me, his chest pressed to my back and his arm around my waist. His face is in my hair and I don’t ever, ever want this to end. I tell him so.
He presses tiny kisses into my hair, rubbing my belly with his hand gently.
‘I know, querido, neither do I,’ he murmurs. I bite my lip to keep in the despair now curling in my chest that had wished to be vocalized.
‘But it has to,’ I finish for him, saying what he does not. He rests his forehead on the back of my head and sighs.
‘I have a contract with Atlético until 2008,’ he explains softly. ‘They are my team, my home.’
‘I know,’ I say, and my voice cracks so I vow that the next time I speak, I will whisper so that he cannot hear me.
‘And you are at Liverpool,’ he adds, reminding me of Rafa (brilliant Rafa) and Pepe (kind and goofy Pepe) and Luis (crazy Luis) and Steven. The one man whom I didn’t want to think about while here with Fernando. The one man I can never stop thinking about, even if I am with Fernando.
As if on cue, the phone rings. I ignore it.
‘Xabi…’
‘Leave it. I don’t want to answer it,’ I tell him, the honesty in my words showing through the hoarse sound of my voice. ‘I just want to lie here with you.’
He sighs deeply from behind me but says nothing. I can feel his eyes on me, watching me, observing me, wondering. Wondering.
The ringing stops, and we are both still and silent, like statues. I know he wants to ask who it is that keeps calling (Steven has been calling on and off all day since I hung up on him.) but he keeps quiet, waiting to see if I will tell him.
I do. Because I trust him. And in telling him this, he knows. Without saying anything. Just as he did to me earlier. (We communicate without words – that takes talent.)
‘Steven? Steven Gerrard?’
‘The very same.’
‘Why is he calling?’ Fernando sounds curious and I mimic his deep sigh from before.
‘He is calling because I hung up on him this morning.’
Fernando scoffs behind me and I twist my head around to look at him. Seeing my expression, he laughs.
‘Why did you hang up on him, Xabi?’ he finally asks. I watch him for a moment, waiting to see if he really wanted to know. He arches his eyebrows in question.
‘I hung up on him because he insulted Nagore and he was being a snit to me,’ I tell him, ‘and I don’t take very well to people insulting my girlfriend. And he was acting like a forsaken wife. I didn’t feel like reminding him that he’s getting married to Alex – not me. But mostly because he insulted Nagore.’
‘Ah,’ Fernando says softly. ‘I don’t like it when people are nasty to my girlfriend either. Even if I don’t spend a lot of time with her, I still care about her. Sergio tried to make fun of Olalla once, and I punched him in the stomach.’
I laugh out loud at this, imagining Sergio’s pretty face when he got punched by his friend and sometimes lover.
‘Well, I could not punch him over the phone, so I hung up, thinking he would get the message.’
‘Ah. I see.’
‘At least someone does.’
‘Xabi, I don’t think he’s getting it.’
‘Obviously not.’
‘Maybe next time you call him some names, yes?’
‘Perhaps next time I threaten to castrate him. Always fun.’
The phone rings again, and we both giggle like children as it rings and rings and rings. And I know at this moment that everything, everything I once knew has changed. I know that Fernando and I will mean more to each other than to anyone else. I know that Steven will never again touch me as Fernando has; I know that things at Liverpool will be very… chilly in the locker rooms this season.
And I know that I will be making frequent trips to Madrid – and if anyone asks, to visit my parents, of course!
Fin.
a/niii: about the random spanish words: i didn't want to do the whole thing in spanish and i wanted to add random spanish. translations are below.
diga - 'speak' (i.c.) (the spanish don't say hello, they answer with commands like speak or talk)
futbolístas - 'footballers, football players' (n)
Sangría - a spanish alcoholic drink with lemons and all kinds of other stuff. my grandparents make it.
izquierda - 'left'
la mañana - 'the morning' (so nagore says, 'we are going to Barcelona in the morning')
adios - 'goodbye' (literally, 'to god', so every time you say goodbye in spanish you are praising god)
dios - 'god'
nombre de dios - 'name of god'
buenos días - 'good morning'
jodiendo - 'fucking' (from 'to fuck', joder - i just conjugated it; don't know if it's right, but it fit)
querido - 'sweetheart'; also used as 'dear' in letters (dear john... querido john...)
--
i think that's it. if i forget one someone will point it out.
Friend?
Current Mood: 
relaxed
relaxedCurrent Music: Make This Go On Forever / Snow Patrol {eyes open}
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