title: 'Broken English' (Love is never sane)
by: omgorgasm
pairing: Fernando Torres/Xabi Alonso, implied Xabi Alonso/Íker Casillas, hinted Xabi Alonso/Steven Gerrard, mentions of mentions of Nagore/Xabi, Steven/Alex, Fernando/Olalla and Íker/Eva Gonzalez -- passing mentions of liverpool squad
rating: R for language and sex
disclaimer: if this had happened, i would not be writing about it, hoping it would happen like some sort of pervy fangirl that i so am, btw.
thanks to: nadine (nadi_wamos), nuffie (nuffie, haylana (clermontoise, suedkurve (suedkurve), melissa (rl), jenessa (regaime) and everyone who commented on my first xabi/nando fic, lost with you, for giving me feedback and support and for just commenting in the first place.
note: to all those who follow the stevie/xabi religion (wink wink, shadae my love) sorry again for ripping them apart. what was a rabid plot bunny turned into ... taking over my life!fic. but hey, if someone just does a massive, huge, holy-crap-that-just-pwned-my-computer!picspam, mehbe i will ♥ s/x again.
author's note: special thanks to clermontoise and suedkurve for some quotes in the fic. they will know them when they read them.
part two of broken english







'Broken English'
(Love is never sane)

=1.=
I am in Liverpool, sitting in my apartment and wondering when Luis is going to ring me. Nagore is ironing one of my button-down shirts in front of the television and I wander around the apartment for a few minutes, then realize that I am bored.

My pocket begins to vibrate and I take out my mobile and flip it open.

‘Diga.’

The voice on the other end warms me from the ends of my hair to the tips of my toes.

‘Xabi,’ he says, and even though he is on the phone I can hear the caressing sound of his low voice as he says my name. Spinning around so that Nagore may not see my face or skin as I flush, I walk into the other room and shut the door.

‘Fernando,’ I breathe into the phone, and now that I am alone I cannot seem to keep the grin off of my face.

‘Surprised?’ he asks, lightly, teasingly, and I laugh.

‘You were not who I expected – I am waiting for someone to call me,’ I explain. I can practically see him on the other line, in Madrid; probably lounging in his big bed, Olalla in the shower; dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, arching an eyebrow at my mysterious statement. I laugh again at the mental picture in my mind.

‘Oh? And who were you expecting? And what are you laughing at?’

‘Luis García is supposed to call me; he is the only one who knows I am back in Inglaterra,’ I tell him, ignoring his other question. He notices.

‘What were you laughing at, Xabi?’

‘You.’

‘Me?’

‘I was … I was imagining you. Where are you right now?’

‘On my bed.’

I smirk to myself as I lounge against the door.

‘Oh? And where is Olalla?’

‘Olalla is…’ I can picture him searching around for her then finally figuring out that the water is running so she must be there. ‘Olalla is in the shower.’

By now I am chuckling and he inferences that I knew all of this before he told me.

‘Fernando, what are you wearing?’

‘Oh, Xabi,’ he breathes, and we are both laughing now. ‘No, all right, serious now, I am wearing shorts and a t-shirt.’

I know him so well.

‘Did you know this?’ he asks, laughter in his voice still.

‘I … I guessed. When I was picturing you in my mind – oh,’ I interrupted myself – I am in the closet. That was why I stopped. I just looked around in the rather dark room and noticed that I am in the closet with the washer and dryer and where we keep the towels. If Nagore finds me in here she will be surely wondering what I have been drinking.

‘Xabi?’

‘It is nothing. I am in a closet.’

‘A closet?’

‘Yes. But I am getting out now.’

‘Xabi, what were you doing in a closet?’

‘Hiding from Nagore.’

‘So there is more than one person who knows you are in Inglaterra,’ he reasons. Frowning, I concentrate on opening the door without sound so she will not look over and ask me why I am coming out of the closet. When I am out and safe, I toss a glance to Nagore and see that she is fully engrossed in a telenovela, then make my way to the bedroom. It is only after I am closed up again do I reenter the conversation.

‘Xabi? Are you there?’ Fernando is saying, sounding worried. I hasten to put him at ease.

‘I am here,’ I say with a smile.

‘Phew,’ he intones, ‘for a minute I thought Nagore had found you.’

‘No,’ I sigh as I lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling. I am wearing jeans and a black sweater – it is cold here, always cold.

‘So… Xabi?’

‘Yes?’

‘Why were you hiding from Nagore? If she ask, tell her you are on the phone with a teammate.’

‘Because when I talk to you, I blush. She will see, ask me if it is another woman. What do I say? “No, Nagore, it is not a woman, it is Fernando Torres!” and she will say, “Why do you look like you speak to a woman?” and then I say, “Because we are fucking!” and then –‘

‘Xabi, Xabi, Xabi!’ Fernando chokes out in between his laughter, ‘you always take things to the extreme!’

‘Oh?’ I say – maybe Fernando is challenging me? ‘Then what do I say to Nagore when she asks me why I am blushing like some kind of fool?’

But he has an answer ready for me.

‘You tell her you are talking to a teammate and he is saying dirty things. Very simple, Xabi,’ he says, as if condescending a small child.

I scoff.

‘She will see through this, always she sees through my lies. Then she asks me why I lie to her – then what do I tell her?’

Fernando just sighs.

‘Why do we keep speaking of your girlfriend? Let’s talk about something else,’ he suggests. I am fine with this.

‘Very well. What do we talk about?’ I ask. (Because honestly, I have no idea what to talk about with him. What do I say without sounding like some love-sick fool who misses his wife? Fernando, I miss you, I love you – I don’t think that would go over well, especially since I just saw him about five hours ago when he drove me to the airport even after I told him I could drive myself).

We are silent for a few moments, then Fernando speaks.

‘How was your flight?’

Wow, I think to myself, could he pick something a little more boring to talk of?

‘It was… short. Not nearly enough time to relive all of our moments together. Apparently it is impossible to relive forty-eight hours of happiness in a three-hour flight. When Nagore first saw me at the airport she asked if I had been “wanking off” in the bathroom – but I couldn’t tell her that I had just gotten to the part where we made lo- er, had sex,’ I correct myself quickly and try to cover my tracks. If he hears my slip up, he says nothing and we move on.

‘Oh?’ he exclaims, obviously amused, ‘were you… aroused?’

My, isn’t he curious. I tell him so, then launch back into the story.

‘Possibly a little,’ I say honestly, ‘we had just gotten to the part in my reliving in which we were pressed against the wall, kissing with our shirts off. Perhaps I was flushed? When I think of you I sometimes get hot.’

Oops. I hadn’t meant to say that last part. I hope he does not notice.

No such luck.

‘You get hot?’ he murmurs, as if seducing me… on the phone. I swallow.

‘Er, yes? Like the oxygen in the room is suddenly dewy with warmth, and my neck heats up.’ I dare not ask if he feels the same when he thinks of me.

‘Xabi, Xabi,’ he whispers, and his voice sends shivers dancing down my back to resonate in the small of my spine. ‘When I think of you, desnudo and writhing underneath me like you were last night… it is like I am standing on the sun; my skin is hot and sometimes the vision of you is so real, I feel like if I reach out… but you are not there.’

He stops talking and we are both silent; my neck feels like it is burning and I know that I am blushing, that colour that sweeps from my ears down my neck to my chest and shoulders, giving them a dusty red colour that Nagore thinks is so ‘cute’.

‘Xabi,’ he breaks the silence with a husky voice. ‘I miss you already and it hasn’t been half a day yet.’

And it is this statement that has me closing my eyes and gripping my chest in sudden pain. He misses me. He misses me.

‘I know, Fernando,’ I whisper, turning my face to the side so that half of my face is in the fluffy pillow. ‘I miss you so much I think my heart might impair me for a disability.’

And Fernando laughs, but the feeling is still there, and we sit for a while just listening to each others breathing, knowing we are close to each other, even if we are only on the phone. At least it’s something.

=2.=
Luis comes to the door and Nagore lets him in. I splash water on my face quickly and pocket my mobile, then go to meet him. We shake hands then laugh and hug. Luis came to Inglaterra before I did because his wife is here – Nagore and I went back to Madrid because our families are there. Luis came to take me for a drink.

We are out the door before Luis turns to me with questions in his eyes.

‘I called you many times,’ he accuses, ‘yet you did not answer. Who were you talking to?’

Ah, the dreaded question. If not Nagore, then Luis. If not Luis, then Steven. I would never get away from this – I do not know how Fernando will do this. Hell, I don’t know how I will do this.

‘I was talking to Fernando,’ I answer easily; and am shocked out of my mind afterwards. What happened to lying? Always easier, plus I never have to deal with the confused look Luis is giving me right now.

‘Fernando Torres?’ he asks.

‘The very same,’ I confirm. ‘We got together in Madrid for a drink after World Cup.’ Good God, I make it sound like we met up and had sex. Oh, yes, that is what we did, isn’t it? Had sex and fell in love in the process. Or at least, I did. I never know with Fernando – unless I can see him and his hidden yet expressive eyes to see the emotions there, I never know what he is feeling.

Luis is watching me as these thoughts flit across my face (always my thoughts do this, go across my face so anyone watching me sees them). He arches an eyebrow at me.

‘Does Nagore know?’ he asks simply. My eyes start to widen in surprise, but I control the urge and merely stare at him.

Then I got over it. I know he knows. It isn’t as if he is not as guilty as I am when it comes to cheating on our significant others with our teammates. (Let’s just say that Harry Kewell was welcomed into Liverpool with open legs. I mean arms.) So I shrug, trying to make it seem nonchalant.

‘No, and she is not going to find out,’ I say in what I hope is a very detached voice. ‘It was really only a one-time thing.’

But from the way Luis looks at me and the way my heart speeds up when I say this tells me different. Even Luis notices.

‘No it isn’t, Xabi,’ he tells me. ‘If you are on the phone with him for so many minutes you cannot click over to talk to me for a few then it is not a one-time thing. It is a relationship.’

‘Psht,’ I scoff, ‘what kind of relationship is in secret?’

‘The kind that you can never tell anyone about,’ he says. And the conversation is over, for I cannot respond to this simple truth.

=3.=
As I lie in bed, I try to plan out when I will see him again, when I will be able to touch his beautiful freckled face and feel his silken skin underneath my fingertips. Nagore is next to me, out cold from all the ironing. I had reached for her when I came to bed but she was ‘asleep’.
I reach my hands above me now, flexing my fingers and tensing my hands, then letting it all go and watching my fingers relax and fall to my wrists, as if I am unable to hold them up.

Then all of a sudden his arms are stretched up next to mine and his fingers are entwining with mine. I spin my head to the side to stare at what used to be Nagore – Fernando was now in her place, grinning up at our hands.

‘This is our souls,’ he says softly, gesturing with a nod to our hands, now weaved together intricately, and then he laughs and it is beautiful and I am so happy because my desires have finally become corporeal and he is here, warm and hard beside me.

I reach my head over to kiss him but when I press my lips to his cheekbone, the hard bone underneath smooth skin becomes silky hair and I pull away to see that I have just kissed Nagore’s head.

I pull away to see that he is gone. Just a beautiful, wistful dream, and he has flown away. Biting my lips to keep in my soft cry, I sit back against the pillows and will myself to sleep.

=4.=
Nagore and I are watching the Germany v. Portugal match for third place. For the first half I complain because Michael Ballack is not on the pitch even when he is the captain and easily one of the best players (and he is gorgeous – but that’s just a bonus). Luis Figo is not playing as well and eventually I give up on the match and vacate to the kitchen. I tell Nagore to call me when the match is ending so that I may see who won.

As I wander through the kitchen and ruffle through the cabinets, my mind replays those moments in the kitchen with Fernando before we ate the rice and chicken.

‘I don’t like olives very much,’ Fernando had said as he stood at the counter next to me (eating olives). He watched me stir the rice and turn the chicken.

‘If you don’t like olives, why are you eating them? I asked, incredulous. I turned to look at him over my shoulder and he kissed my nose.

‘Because they are here, in front of me. And because I am hungry. You have not fed me yet!’

‘Xabi!’

Nagore’s voice drags me out of the happy memories and I sigh, my hands fingering the wood of the cabinet gently.

‘Yes?’ I call back.

‘There is five minutos left of the partido, ¿quieres ver?’

‘I’ll be right there.’

When I walk back into the living room she has her long, long legs spread out across the couch. I pick them up, sit down and place them on my lap, my right hand resting on her ankle tenderly. She smiles over at me, sweetly, and I am reminded of why I stay with her, why I care about her. It takes little things to make her happy; small gestures, tender touches, soft kisses and she is purring like an alley cat. She is sweet and lovely and I truly do love her.

I look at the television and see Lukas Podolski and Cristiano Ronaldo battling each other for the ball. Germany is winning three to one and that is all I need to know. I run my hands up and down Nagore’s thin, tan legs and feel their smoothness. I am reminded (accidentally, against my will) of Fernando and his smoothness, his slick torso and legs; friction between our bodies because I am hairy and he is not.

Then his hand is stroking my cheek (vaguely, in the back of my mind I realize it is Nagore’s hand; thinner, softer, but I want it to be Fernando’s hand, so I ignore the light going off in the back of my head and just pretend) and I am leaning into the caress. I inhale to smell his scent and smell Nagore’s instead.

‘Xabi,’ she whispers close to my ear, ‘who are you thinking of?’

And this jerks me out of my fantasy and I stare with wide eyes down into hers. And I know, I know that there are hundreds of emotions and thoughts flashing through my eyes like fire (because she always does say that she can tell what I am feeling and thinking by looking into my ‘expressive’ brown eyes). I look into hers and she is calm, calm and careful and soft in her touches and her eyes and I can see the intelligence there, deep in the light brown of her gaze.

Should I try to play it off as if I have no idea what she is talking about?

‘Xabi,’ she says again, ‘please tell me.’

Is this an act? Is this some sort of joke? Dios.

‘Nagore…’ I say, licking my lips, swallowing my fantasy and Fernando and my fear and staring into her eyes.

‘I know there is someone else,’ she interrupts (and she is so fucking calm, as if she understands, as if she can look into my eyes and see that I am so in love, so ridiculously in love and that it aches – and now that I think this, I believe she can see all of that in my eyes – she always could tell my moods and emotions, she knows me too well…).

‘No, Nagore,’ I hear my tongue say, and she puts her fingers (so slight, so long and thin and soft and lovely, like Nagore, Dios she deserves better than this, better than me, I know it, I know it…) against my lips and replaces them with her mouth. She kisses me, softly, lovingly.

‘Mi amor,’ she murmurs, ‘si le amas a alguien… why do you stay here with me?’

‘Nagore,’ I say now with conviction, and I cup my hands around her thin, delicate face, ‘Te amo. It is not a joke. I love you.’

‘But you love her as well,’ she reasons. And without even letting my mind think about it, I answer her honestly.

‘Sí, I love him.’

There is silence for a while, and our faces are close, our noses touching. She stares into my eyes, hers slightly wide, then presses our foreheads together after a few moments.

‘Oh, Xabi,’ she murmurs. ‘I understand. Do you believe me? I understand.’

And my chest heaves in a dry sob as I let out the tension and anxiety and my arms are so tense as I crush her slight body to mine; my hands are shaking as I scoop her hair into my face and breathe through it as though it were a filter; and my eyes are leaking as she strokes my neck and back with her long, beautiful hands.

=5.=
‘Who is it?’ she asks later, when we are in bed. She is in her underwear and I am in boxers and we are on our elbows, watching each other. Since I have already begun telling her the truth, why not finish it?

‘Fernando Torres,’ I say shyly, and I can feel my neck and ears heating up. She watches the swatches of pink grow across my chest and shoulders and laughs.

‘Oh, Xabi,’ she laughs, ‘you must love this boy. El Niño, ¿no?’

I nod to this.

‘Ay, Xabi, que bueno. El es muy amable.’

‘Yes,’ I say gently, ‘he is.’

We are silent for a while, touching each other softly, smiling. Then she speaks again, her voice quiet in the darkness of our room.

‘Does he love you?’ she asks. I swallow, knowing that I could never lie to her.

‘I don’t know,’ I say honestly.

‘He has not told you?’ she says incredulously.

‘No, he has not.’

‘Even after you has dicho que le amas? What did he say then?’

Ah, so this is why she is so shocked. She believes that I have told him of my feelings. I hurry to correct her.

‘I have not said anything, querida.’

‘What? Why not?’

‘Nagore… with men, it is different than with women. I look at you and I tell you, “te quiero,” and you smile and say the same. If I look at him and say, “te amo,” he will frown and say, “ah, that is a funny joke, Xabi.”’

But she is smiling and shaking her head, sitting up in the bed to look down at me.

‘No, no, no, Xabi. You are so silly. If you love him, and you tell him, he will know that it is truth. He will look in your eyes and see it there as I do. The love that softens your eyes deep inside the brown of your irises. If he cares for you as I do, he will look, and he will see.’

Her words warm me to the core, but I don’t want to hope – I hoped with Steven and now look where I am – finding solace, warmth, lust, love in the arms of another man.

‘You must tell him, tell him soon,’ she says confidently, as if telling me there is no way I can argue. I sigh.

‘Nagore…’

‘No!’ she emphasizes with an open hand smacking down on the bed between us. ‘No arguments. You tell him tonight, or I go to España myself and tell him.’

‘Nagore!’

And then she is tossing my mobile at me (that she had grabbed from the nightstand) and poking my chest until I open the phone and that is when my fingers begin to shake.

‘What is it now?’ she asks after she watches me stare at the mobile for a few minutes.

‘Nothing…’ I answer and my voice is barely above a whisper.

‘Ah,’ she says knowingly. ‘You are afraid.’

‘What?’ I exclaim, my head snapping up to stare into her eyes. ‘No!’

‘Yes,’ she smirks, her eyes teasing as she leans down to gaze at me. ‘You are. Tienes miedo en que he will reject you.’

I am silent now, quietly fuming at her analysis of me and my feelings (never mind that she got it exactly right, as usual).

‘Xabi,’ she says now, her fingers coming up to stroke my jaw, ‘I do not understand why you are worrying. Everyone loves you. I love you. What makes you think that he does not?’

‘It’s not that,’ I say, struggling with my words. I cannot put to words this feeling that curls my stomach into knots and squeezes my heart and lungs so that I think I might die from the strain.

‘Then what is it?’ she insists.

‘I… I don’t know!’

And then she is silent. She stares at me, and I stare at the bedspread, because my neck and chest are on fire with my embarrassment and shame.

Then she is putting her fingers under my chin and lifting, so that she may gaze into my eyes, and she presses her lips to mine.

‘You love him, Xabi,’ she says. As if I didn’t already know. ‘And he loves you. He loves you.’

‘How do you know?’ I whisper brokenly (to my ears).

‘I just do,’ she tells me. ‘I can just… I can just feel it.’

I fell asleep that night smiling.

=6.=
Steven is back in England. He has been calling my mobile almost non stop for two days and I keep ignoring him.

‘Who keeps calling you?’ Nagore finally asks at lunch, ‘and why aren’t you answering the phone?’

‘Steven is calling me,’ I answer (Dios, I am being brutally honest with her now, after the whole Fernando thing. I think she likes it, though, or else she wouldn’t keep asking me about him and demanding I ring him to tell him I love him.)

‘Steven? Steven Gerrard?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why is he ringing you?’

‘Because he is back in Inglaterra and now he wants to fuck.’

She is silent and staring at me with wide, green and brown eyes.

‘Oh,’ she finally says.

‘Yes,’ I answer.

And I watch her piecing it all together – my time at Liverpool, winning the FA cup, the Kiss, Steven and my hugs on the pitch… then I was dodging pencils.

‘I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!’ she yells.

‘Nagore!’ I shout, running behind a door. ‘I’m sorry!’

Then it is silent and I peek out from behind the wood to see her, leaning against the wall, watching me.

‘Steven is getting married next year,’ she says softly. ‘He is no good for you. Olalla and Fernando are like you and I, while Alex and Steven are… creatures unlike any I have ever seen. Olalla understands Fernando as I understand you. You stay with him – he puts a glow into your cara.’

Blushing, I hide behind the door again.

=7.=
It is weeks before I see Steven.

Fernando and I speak every day on the phone, in the morning after breakfast and at night before bed.

When I first see Steven, I am on the phone with him, walking into the changing rooms at Liverpool. Steven is shirtless and he stops everything when he sees me, jabbering into my mobile, smiling and laughing and glowing and happy.

‘Estoy aquí, en Liverpool,’ I tell him quietly, placing my bag down next to Stevens'.

‘Is he there?’ Fernando asks in Spanish laughingly.

‘Sí, está aquí también,’ I practically whisper (though I don’t know why I am trying to be so quiet – Steven is right next to me and I am speaking in Spanish, which he cannot understand at all.) ‘He is not very happy,’ I continue in Spanish, ‘this is the first time I’ve seen him in a while and I’m not talking to him at all. I didn’t even say hello.’

Fernando laughs triumphantly on the other line.

‘Xabi, you can tell Steven Gerrard that you are mine now and he is not to touch you. Hear that, Gerrard?’ he yells now, and I hold the mobile away from my ear.

‘Shh, Fernando,’ I say, laughing, ‘I cannot tell him that! He is the Captain.’

‘I am right ‘ere, you know.’

(My breath catches, because Steven is facing me now and his eyes are positively murderous. And I think maybe I was right to try and be quiet around him, because he can obviously see that I was talking about him and I am speaking to another man.)

‘You’re talkin’ ‘bout me, right? With Fernando?’ His accent is horrific (and he pronounces Fernando’s name all wrong, like, ‘Fur-NAYN-doe’ when it is really ‘Fer-NAN-do’, easy and light and it rolls of your tongue) and his tone of voice is snide, mean to go with his eyes.

‘Tengo que irme,’ I say into the phone.

‘Xabi? What is wrong?’

‘Nada. Hasta luego.’

‘Xabi!’

I flip the mobile closed and stare at it for a moment, then raise my gaze to Steven’s. Everything is silent (there is no one else in the changing rooms but Steven and I, everyone else is probably out on the field) as we stare at each other – Steven is breathing hard, his chest going up and down in an almost exaggerated motion, and he is trying to stare me down as if he is taller than I.

Squaring my shoulders so that I am taller, I arch an eyebrow at him (in that way I know he hates, because he says I look haughty and arrogant).

‘What do you want?’ I say in my broken English.

‘What do I want?’ he scoffs (and his English is just as bad as mine, even worse sometimes, and I revel in this discovery). ‘I want to know why the fuck you’ve been ignoring my calls. I’ve been ringin’ you since July! Where the fuck have you been?’

He looks angry – I bask in it.

‘I have been fucking my girlfriend, just like you say,’ I respond, and I know it sounds wrong but I have no idea how to fix it. English will never come naturally to me – I am Spanish, and Español is the only idioma I will ever know.

Steven looks confused for a moment, as if he does not understand that I am insulting him as he insulted me. I am throwing his words back into his face to see him cringe. Then his eyes are widening and his eyebrows are coming together in a frown.

‘Were you fucking your girlfriend so much that you couldn’t answer your goddamn mobile? … And who the hell is Fernando?’

And there he is again, with his friend Furnayndoe.

‘Maybe I hear you call and ignore the phone? And the name are Fer-NAN-do. You pronounce… all wrong.’

If anything, this got him more angry. (Which, in hindsight, was exactly what I wanted.)

‘Who,’ he grounds out now, eyes furious and hands curled into tense fists, ‘is Fer-nan-do?’

Sniffing lightly, I strip off my sweatpants and roll up the sleeves to my sweatshirt. When he opens his mouth to shout at me and raises his hands to grab me, I jump over the bench in the middle of the lockers and walk past him.

‘You know, Steven,’ I say as I walk by, ‘I do not think I need tell you.’ Spinning on my toes, I walk backward and stare into his eyes seriously. ‘Do not ring me more, Steven. Leave Nagore and me a-lone. I am for … another someone now.’

And I left him alone in the dark changing room to ponder my words (literally… he’s probably standing there wondering what I was trying to say to him). As I walked out the door to the pitch, I heard him slam a fist or foot into the lockers and heard his harsh voice as he swore.

When he came onto the pitch a few minutes later, I was already engrossed in a conversation with Mark Gonzalez and Daniel Agger. He went over to Jamie Carragher and that was that. We were separated.

No more Stevie and Xabi anymore. His cold glares in my direction told me that.

But the thing was…

I can’t seem to find it in my heart to care. (Steven’s only ever cared about himself and his dick anyway.)

=8.=
‘Fernando?’

‘Xabi, ¿cómo estás? How was your meeting with Steven Gerrard? What happened?’

‘Woah, Fernando, I can only answer one question at a time!’ I laugh into the mobile (and I am happy, because I can speak in Spanish with him – I am back in the language I know and it is symbolic because only when I am with Fernando can I be who I am and speak my own language). Nagore is across from me, sitting in the armchair as I am on the couch. She tosses a look (that says ‘You are so obvious’) over her book then returns to reading (though I know she is listening).

‘Fine,’ Fernando says, mock-pouting. ‘What happened with Gerrard?’

‘Easy,’ I say, nonchalant, ‘I told him what’s what.’

The silence (on the phone and in the room) is tense and drawn out. I can feel Nagore’s eyes on me but do not raise my gaze from my hands which are in my lap. Finally, Fernando breaks the silence.

‘What did you tell him?’ he asks softly (as if afraid of my answer, which I think is very endearing).

‘I told him not to ring me anymore. I told him to leave Nagore and I alone because – ‘ and here is where good old Xabi Alonso shudders to a stop (why? Why? Because he is scared. He is truly scared and it takes a lot for him to admit this.) (and this has got me wondering why on earth I am about to tell him this. Why indeed?)

‘Because?’

‘I told him because I … because I belong to someone else now.’

‘Is that what you said?’

‘…Yes. That is what I said to him.’

Fernando is quiet on the other end of the phone, and I bite my lip, wondering what he is thinking. He does not say anything for a long time. Then, my patience snaps and I am speaking (damn my weakness).

‘Fernando?’

‘Yes?’

‘What… what are you thinking?’ Could I have phrased it any more clearly? Fernando, do you still want me? Fernando, do you love me?

‘I am finding a way to tell you eloquently – meaning so I don’t sound like some kind of sappy romance novel – how much what you have just told me has made me ridiculously happy.’

Vaya, what a roundabout way to accept me. Still.

‘Ah, Fernando?’

‘Mm, ¿sí?’

‘What does that mean?’

And to this he chuckles, and I smile to myself and look up to lock gazes with Nagore, who has an eyebrow raised in question. I mouth ‘later’ to her and she gives me a dirty look (‘how dare you not tell me now?! I’m your partner-in-crime, here!’) and then I am back to paying attention as Fernando explains his insanity to me.

‘It means I’m happy,’ he says simply.

‘Happy about what?’ I press, as if milking him for some kind of insight on his feelings.

‘I’m… Xabi, I am happy that you told Steven Gerrard what he can do with his fucking manzanas. Do you understand now?’

‘I was right to tell him that I belong to you?’

‘Yes. Yes. You belong to me as I belong to you.’

My heart warms to the point of fucking incendio at his words and my ears and neck flame with happiness. My jaw hangs slack but I cannot form coherent words to respond to him. (Because after this I want to throw my arms around his neck and press our lips together and mold my body to his because they fit so well together but I can’t, I can’t and that is what’s killing me).

‘I miss you,’ I whisper (and I sound so weak, so broken) into the mobile (and I don’t want to admit that I am waiting for his answer with my heart in my throat).

He sighs into the mouthpiece of the phone and I close my eyes to listen to his breathing, even if only for a moment, to put him near me.

‘And you know I do, querido,’ he murmurs – and it feels like a caress, his fingers ghosting down my arms, his hands closing around mine and his lips on the backs of my fingers.

We hang up a few minutes later – Nagore pounces on me a few seconds afterwards and demands to know his side of the conversation. I enjoy sharing our relationship with her – it’s as if I have a confidante, a partner-in-crime in the woman who used to be my girlfriend.

Now… we sleep in the same bed but we don’t have sex; we live together but as friends, not as lovers. She acts as my girlfriend when we are around other people but when we get behind closed doors we are chattering like best friends.

And I love her for it.

‘What did he say? Hmm? Xabi! What did he say?’ She pulls me out of my musings by the hair and demands answers.

‘Nagore, relax. He said that I belong to him and he … he belongs to me.’

And she looks at me for a second, then launches into a sequence of high-pitched squeaks about how amazing that is and I love her all the more. And I tell her so. I wrap my hand around her neck (in that move she loves so much, ‘tender, I can feel your love when you do that’) and look into her excited, brown-green gaze.

‘Thank you,’ I say gently. Her eyes well up with tears and she smiles softly, then the moment is over and she is back to racing around the room, planning and scheming to get me and Fernando together.





////this is the end of part one. this is such a massive fic (eighteen pages on word) i had to split it in two. sorry.
a/nii: again, sorry about the random spanish. i have translated everything below. i went a little spanish!crazy in this one, with sentences and everything. thanks for reading, part two up soon.
diga - 'speak' (i.c.) (the spanish don't say hello, they answer with commands like speak or talk)
telenovela - 'soap opera' (like the ones betty's father watches on 'ugly betty')
desnudo - 'naked' (self-explanatory)
minutos - 'minutes'
partido - 'match/game' (football game. 'juego' can also be used, but my cousins always call it a match, and i trust them because they are spanish.)
quires ver - 'do you want to see'
dios - 'god'
mi amor - 'my love'
si le amas a alguien - 'if you love someone'
te amo - 'i love you'
sí - 'yes'
que bueno - 'that is good'
el es muy amable - 'he is very kind'
has dicho que le amas - the whole sentence means, 'even after you had told him you love him'
querida - 'sweetheart'
te quiero - 'i want you' (this is not much different than 'te amo' - the verbs are different, while amar is to love, querer is to want. both basically mean the same thing)
tienes miedo en que - 'you are scared that' (literally 'you have fear in that')
cara - 'face' (it also means 'expensive', but not in this context)
estoy aquí - 'i am here'
está aquí también - 'he is here too/as well'
tengo que irme - 'i have to go'
nada - 'nothing'
hasta luego - 'see you later'
idioma - 'language'
cómo estás - 'how are you'
vaya - 'wow/woah'
incendio - 'fire'
--
thats a long one. off to post part two. please comment on both! and i love, love gushing. the longer and more incoherent the comments, the better, honestly. heh.
posting part two now.

lost with you -- the first fic
broken english -- part two
friend?