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Andres knew some of his teammates would have smacked him over the head for saying it out loud, but he really was surprised when he got the phone call telling him Aragones wanted him on the squad for the World Cup. He'd been thinking about what he wanted to do with his summer, that maybe it would be nice to have a little rest. He was too old for any of the junior internationals; it was the first time in years that he wouldn't be playing them. Mostly he'd been preoccupied with how soon and how often Victor was going to drag him out to the beach, and how sunburned he was going to be as a result. He wasn't looking forward to an entire summer spent so far away from Xavi, but he'd survived international breaks before and Xavi would be okay without him; Andres still got dizzy spells if he didn't see Xavi at all for more than a week or so, but Xavi never had any problems. And anyway, unless he was actually in the middle of a football match, Andres figured having to sit down quietly for a few minutes until he got his sense of balance back wasn't all that big a deal. He would have coped.
The first thing Andres did after he hung up the phone was tell his parents. Then Victor called, and it wasn't until Victor was congratulating him, sounding genuinely delighted for him, that he realized Victor wouldn't be coming with him.
"Hey, no," Victor said, in response to his stumbling apology. "You deserve it. And Casillas is better than me. I'll get better, maybe next time I'll deserve it too. But Xavi's going to be there, right? He'll take care of you."
"You do realize I'm a grown man and I don't need anyone to take care of me," Andres said.
"Of course I do," Victor lied unrepentantly, and Andres smiled. "Go call Xavi. Tell him I said I'll break his legs if he lets any of those madridistas bully you."
"Tell him yourself, asshole," Andres said. "I'm not your messenger." Victor laughed at him and hung up.
Andres didn't actually call Xavi, because he didn't need to; Xavi already knew. A conversation would have been superfluous. Andres could feel that Xavi was happy and proud of him without bothering to pick up a phone.
*
He spent the flight to Madrid squashed between Xavi and Puyol, both of whom seemed determined to make sure he felt sufficiently looked-after, possibly by smothering him. Andres had a sinking feeling that Victor had somehow had a hand in that, even in absentia. Still, he wasn't particularly nervous; he wanted to play well and make a good impression, but he knew he probably wasn't going to get off the bench for any of the games, and he was all right with that. There were a lot of older, better players. It would be a while before he earned the right to be considered for a starting position. Mostly he was just excited to be called up at all, and to see some of his friends. He hadn't spoken to Cesc in almost a year, outside of texts and email, and Pepe had just gotten married. It would be good to catch up.
Xavi touched his shoulder as the plane started to descend. "Stay close to me when we get there, okay? You'll be fine."
"Oh," Andres said, startled, and smiled at Xavi. "No, don't worry about me, I'm all right. I want to talk to Cesc anyway, and I think he said his flight gets in pretty soon after ours." He tried to project how not-nervous he was, but Xavi didn't let go or move back.
"Fabregas, right?" Puyi asked on his other side, before he could figure out why Xavi wasn't picking up on the fact that he genuinely was fine already. "I think Leo's still pining over him going to England. I hope he deserves it, at least."
"Cesc's a good kid," Andres said. "And I don't think Leo would say he's pining."
Puyi snorted. "Doesn't mean he isn't."
"Well," Andres amended. "Not very often." Puyol ruffled his hair, and Andres leaned into his hand for a moment. "We should do something for his birthday. He'd like that, I think. I'll talk to Cesc about it." Xavi smiled at that, and Andres decided not to bother bringing up the weird moment of miscommunication earlier. It was probably just the result of whatever threatening speech Victor had made before they left. Xavi knew Victor couldn't really break his legs; he'd get over it.
*
When they got off the plane everything was loud and confusing and for a moment Andres was blindly certain that he had lost some vital piece of his luggage, and he was grateful for the way Xavi and Puyol were still sticking close, sandwiching him between them when they could. But the moment passed; there were representatives from the Federation to take care of everything and lead them where they had to go, and it wasn't difficult to follow them. He knew, without really thinking about it, that he would have been fine coming on his own, too.
Puyi gave him room to breathe at the first nudge, and Andres was as grateful for his benevolent neglect as he had been for the attention that had preceded it. Xavi wouldn't take the hint, though. "I'm fine, really," only made him stand closer and snap at the poor woman who had to herd them through the airport, and when Andres tried to say it without words, he found Xavi had walled himself off from him; it was more bewildering than the crowds and the noise all around them. But then Xavi grabbed his wrist to keep him close as they turned a corner and he could feel him again, and Andres was so relieved that he would have let Xavi walk on his toes all the way to Las Rozas if only he would promise not to shut him out again. He knew Xavi could if he wanted to; Xavi had amazing shields, layers and layers and layers he could put up. He was too sensitive not to have them, but Andres hated it when Xavi used them on him.
Still, whatever was upsetting Xavi had in turn upset Andres so badly that it didn't even occur to him again to be nervous about his new teammates until they were already at the hotel, and then it was hard to be intimidated. Even Iker Casillas lost some of his air of impenetrable cool when Xavi was clinging to his back like a spider monkey, cackling out loud and calling him a skunk. Andres tried to fade into the background, but he couldn't help a smile; Xavi was so happy to see him. Xavi had had a pretty rough season, considering the injury. Andres hadn't seen him smile like this in months.
"Andrew, where are you going?" Xavi asked suddenly. He was still hanging off Casillas, but his attention had switched focus so suddenly and so completely that Andres felt like everyone in the room must have been looking at him. "Come here."
"I was just going to--" Andres said, gesturing helplessly at Puyol. Puyi shook his head immediately. Andres didn't really blame him for not wanting to get involved, but he didn't know how else he was supposed to get out of whatever Xavi wanted.
"No, come here," Xavi repeated impatiently. He landed back on the carpet with a thump and went over to grab Andres by the wrist again so he could haul him back to Casillas. "Iker, this is Andres. Andres, this is Iker."
"Hi?" Andres said.
"Hi," Casillas replied. He looked more confused than anything. "I've seen you at games, but yeah, nice to meet you. Xavi, I thought you wanted to go up with me and unpack."
"Yeah, we're going now," Xavi agreed.
"But--oh, well--"
"I told you, I'm going to wait for Cesc and Pepe," Andres said. He looked for Puyi again for backup, but he'd gone off to talk to Raul, the coward. "Puyi will be with me, it's okay," he added. If he wasn't going to stay and help, at least he wasn't around to contradict anything.
"No, come with me and Iker," Xavi said. "You'll see them at dinner anyway."
"But--" Didn't Xavi want to spend time with Casillas?
"What? It's fine, Iker's coming too," Xavi said, frowning. Andres gave up.
"Okay," he sighed, and mouthed sorry at Casillas behind Xavi's back. If he saw, he didn't acknowledge it; he was staring at Xavi's hand, which was still wrapped around Andres' wrist. "You can let go now."
"Okay," Xavi said agreeably, and moved the offending appendage to Andres' back instead so he could guide him to the elevator, a whole ten meters away. Across the room, Puyi was trying not to laugh, and Raul was watching the whole thing with a thoughtful look on his face. Casillas, cutting ahead of Xavi, stabbed the up button with unnecessary violence and an irritated scowl. It was not really the impression Andres had hoped to make on his new team.
*
In the end, Andres spent the entire afternoon sitting around in awkward silence while Xavi unpacked and he and Casillas talked about various mutual acquaintances that Andres didn't know. Xavi remembered to include him every once in a while, but he was really bad at it; he and Casillas had the same sense of humor and laughed at all the same inside jokes, and if it occurred to Xavi to explain, he only made things worse. Andres wasn't exactly talkative at the best of times, let alone around strangers who played for Real Madrid. Casillas didn't really go out of his way to be helpful, either, but under the circumstances Andres didn't blame him.
That wasn't so bad, really; he didn't mind just listening, and he did pick up a little about what to look out for with his new teammates, so it wasn't a waste. Xavi kept touching him, though. He wasn't going to lie to himself and say he didn't like it; he did. Every brush of Xavi's hand on his shoulder or back or knee was a declarative statement of how much Xavi wanted him to be all right, and he appreciated the effort to keep him from feeling out of place or lonely. The thing was, he didn't really need it, and each time Xavi reached out to him, the weird look on Casillas' face got weirder.
"I know Victor told you to," Andres said patiently, when Casillas retreated to the bathroom for a moment and he finally got Xavi alone. "But you really don't need to hover like that. He doesn't mean it when he says he's going to break your legs if you don't do what he tells you."
"Victor didn't tell me anything," Xavi said. Andres wouldn't have hesitated for a moment to call him a liar if he hadn't been able to feel that he was genuinely surprised, and maybe a little hurt underneath that. "Not that--I'm sure he's very worried about you, though," Xavi backpedaled. "And that he would break any number of legs if he thought you needed it."
"Oh." Andres frowned. "But then why--"
Casillas came back, and he didn't get a chance to finish his question. "Dinner?" Casillas suggested. "It's about time to head down, I think."
"All right," Xavi said easily, getting to his feet. He stood on tiptoe to ruffle Casillas' hair, which made Casillas smile, and then patted Andres on the shoulder as he shooed them both out ahead of him so he could lock the door. When Andres ventured a look upwards, Casillas was frowning again.
*
Andres finally escaped from Xavi's orbit when Cesc came over to say hello, and he gratefully pulled him aside so they could catch up. "Um, so, how have you been lately?" Cesc asked. He was trying to keep a straight face, but he was terrible at it. Andres didn't even flinch when someone grabbed him from behind and spun him around in the air.
"Andresito!" Pepe said, when he put him down. "My little friend, I have missed you and your glowing complexion."
"I've missed you too," Andres said, grinning. "Not your snoring, though. Congratulations on finding a woman who likes you enough to put up with it for the rest of her life, by the way."
"Yolanda thinks my snoring is soothing," Pepe declared. "Like a lullaby. You probably had trouble falling asleep for years after I left."
"Soothing like a lullaby, if a lullaby sounds like a freight train," Andres agreed. "Cesc, you'd better pray you never get assigned to room with him."
"And you! Blackening my name to innocent strangers! Is this gratitude, I ask you," Pepe appealed to Cesc before turning back to Andres. "Did I not dedicate my youthful years to your care and comfort, did I not offer you food when you were hungry, drink when you were thirsty--"
"Like even once in your life you've given away food," Andres interrupted.
"Base slanders!" Pepe put Andres in a headlock and marched him a few steps forward. Cesc followed, giggling helplessly. "But I forgive you," Pepe added, his tone changing so fast Andres blinked. "And I want you to know that if you ever have any concerns, if you feel lonely or need someone to listen to you, you come right here." He let Andres go and thumped on his chest. "Pepe is here for you."
"Victor told you to spy on me for him, didn't he," Andres sighed. That explained a lot, actually.
"I don't know what you're--okay, look, don't tell him I told you, okay?" Pepe said. "He said not to tell you. You know what he gets like about you, it's cute but also kind of scary."
"Wait, did you actually talk to him or did he text you?" Andres demanded. "What did he sound like? Was he--do you think he's lonely? Or bored? Is he okay?"
"You know, Andresito, there's this fascinating device called a telephone, you pick it up and dial a number and you can talk to people yourself--"
"Victor said not to call him until I got home again," Andres said. "He thinks it'll distract me or something. Seriously, did he sound okay?"
"He sounded fine. Would you like me to keep you posted after I give him your daily status update?"
Andres sighed in relief. "Oh, that would be perfect, thank you."
Pepe stared at him. "You and Victor are freakish and codependent," he said at last. "And I'm kind of glad I don't have to live with the two of you anymore."
*
At least training was training, Andres thought. Aragones was strange, there was no getting around that, but he wasn't any stranger than van Gaal had been. Everyone was very good, of course, and all the players were very friendly, even the ones he didn't know very well yet. Some of them were maybe a little too friendly, if he was being honest, but thankfully Joaquin seemed content with Cesc as his designated partner in crime and chewtoy. Cesc could more than hold his own on that end.
It would have been nicer if he could play with Xavi, though.
"Fucking long balls," Xavi muttered to him during a water break. Andres didn't need to touch him to tell that he was irritated; the creases that appeared in his forehead as soon as their practice match ended said that much loud and clear. "Why the fuck am I even on the pitch if they're going to hoof the damn thing like--" Casillas was coming towards them from behind Xavi; he was almost within earshot already. Andres bit his lip and stepped on Xavi's foot. "Ow! Motherfucking--what did you--"
"Hey," Casillas said. He smiled at Xavi, almost tentatively, and Andres resisted the urge to step on Xavi again. "I was going to get some of the guys together for a card game after dinner, you in?"
"I don't--" Xavi started, then turned to look at Andres. "Do you want to play cards?"
"No," Andres said, startled. "Thanks, but--Xavi, no, you should go," he added hastily, suddenly seeing where this was going. Casillas was staring at both of them with an increasingly incredulous expression. "I want to call my parents and email Victor. Go. I don't need you to babysit me."
"Well--if you're sure," Xavi said quietly. A strange expression flickered across his face, too fast for Andres to read; he wished Casillas weren't standing right there, so he could have touched Xavi to find out what was wrong. Then Xavi turned away, smiling at Casillas, and Andres decided he must have imagined it. "Us and who else?" he asked. "Did you ask Carlos yet?"
*
The flight to Germany didn't take long--just long enough for it to really start sinking in for Andres that this was it. He was going to the World Cup. He reflexively turned away from the window and started to say something to his seatmate, only to pull up short at the reminder that it wasn't Victor between him and the aisle this time.
Puyi pulled his headphones off. "Did you say something?"
"No," Andres said. Puyi shrugged and went back to his music. A few rows diagonally ahead of them, Xavi and Casillas were talking quietly to each other, pausing occasionally to smack the back of Cesc's head when his conversation with Joaquin got too loud. It was a losing battle; not even Casillas could stay stern with Cesc long enough to get him to be quiet. Andres could hear Guaje rambling nervously to Pepe behind him, too, though not as clearly as Cesc.
Victor should have been with him. For the first time since they'd left Barcelona, Andres wished Xavi were still hovering, that he would come sit with him, talk to him, touch him. He felt homesick.
*
Even before they sat down to dinner it was obvious that Xavi was annoyed. Andres didn't understand why--they had won their first game, Xavi had been man of the match, everyone was happy--but a similar bad mood buzzed under his skin like thousands of tiny insects. Xavi was shutting him out again; he hadn't let him in since they landed in Germany, or maybe before, and Andres just hadn't noticed until then. He didn't know why and he was afraid to ask, but the artificial distance between them, even when Xavi slung an arm around his shoulders at practice or they sat thigh-to-thigh at meals, put Andres' teeth on edge.
Xavi ate like his food would get up and run away given half a chance, and when he spoke his voice was sharp, sometimes bordering on cruel. Andres listened in silence as long as he could, until Cesc's wide eyes and pale face opposite him were too much, and then he reached out under the table and put his hand on Xavi's knee. Some of the nervous tension left Xavi's body, but not nearly enough.
Andres glanced around the room; Casillas was looking straight at them, and Raul was watching, too, an unreadable expression on his face. There was nothing to be done about that, though. He put his chin on Xavi's shoulder and pressed his face into Xavi's neck. "Stop it," he whispered. "Xavi, you have to stop. You're scaring Cesc." You're scaring me.
"What?" Xavi said. The angry crawling sensation stopped when Xavi put his hand over Andres', and for a moment he thought--
But the space Xavi had put between them was still there.
"I'm sorry," Xavi said to Cesc and Puyi, and ruffled Andres' hair. "Are you done eating? Do you still want to call your parents? I'll walk you up to your room."
"Okay," Andres said quietly, frustrated nearly to the point of tears. What he wanted was for Xavi to talk to him, to let him be his bondmate the way he was supposed to, but he supposed it would be nice to talk to his mother. I know I'm not helping, he thought at Xavi, almost viciously, knowing that Xavi couldn't hear him, but you have to let me try.
He looked back as Xavi pulled him up and started walking towards the exit. Casillas was talking to Pepe and Guaje, but Raul watched them until they went out the door.
*
Andres started composing an email to Victor in his head during the Tunisia match. He was on the bench, and there wasn't anything else he could do. Pepe and Cesc were on either side of him but he didn't want to talk. Then Tunisia scored, and nobody would have talked anyway. It was bad enough playing games like this, when you did everything you could but the ball just would not hit the back of the net. It was a thousand times worse watching from the bench.
Dear Victor, I think Xavi is going to murder someone before the end of the tournament and I don't even know why because he won't tell me what's bothering him. I don't know what to do. Do you think he'd stop and listen to me if I told him I'd break his legs? Probably not. Nobody would ever be scared of me.
Cesc was subbed on at half-time, then Joaquin for Guaje ten minutes later, and most of Pepe's attention was absorbed by trying to contain Villa. Andres sat quietly on the bench and squinted through the rain, following Xavi as best he could, even after they equalized, and Fernando scored twice more to finally give them the match. He wanted to be out there with Xavi. He must have wanted other things more in the twenty-two years he'd been alive, but he couldn't remember any of them at the moment.
I wish you were here. I really miss you.
When the match was over he started to stand, then dropped back to the bench until Pepe pulled him up and dragged him away to the dressing room. He was so light-headed he could barely see.
*
"Iniesta," Raul said quietly. Andres jerked and dropped his shoe--he hadn't heard Raul come up beside him. Thankfully the dressing room was noisy enough that no one else had noticed. "Could I speak to you for a moment?"
"I, uh," Andres said. He bit his tongue and sat up straight. "Yes?"
"Finish putting on your shoes first," Raul said, a faint trace of a smile in his eyes. "I can wait that long."
Andres flushed and fumbled with his laces. Raul didn't look angry and had never been anything but kind, but something about his gaze still made Andres' fingers clumsy enough that he struggled to tie knots like a child. "All right," he said at last. "What did you--"
"Not here." Raul got to his feet and held out his hand to Andres. "Come on." Andres threw a single worried look back as Raul shepherded him out of the dressing room, but Xavi was with Casillas so he'd probably be all right.
"I haven't had much of a chance to get to know you yet," Raul said when they had apparently reached their destination, just some nondescript, out-of-the-way corner of the building. "As your captain, I'm sorry for that."
"It's, um, all right," Andres said, barely able to keep his voice from ascending into an inaudible squeak. "I've got--I'm not Cesc, you know."
"No one else could be," Raul agreed mildly. "And the lord knows he'll never forget it, the way everyone spoils him. No, that's all right. I didn't bring you out here to talk to you about Fabregas." Andres waited as Raul rubbed at his face, suddenly looking very tired. "Look, Iniesta," he said. "I'm not--I'm not blind or stupid, and I've played with Guardiola. But I can't--this thing with Xavi, you've got to fix it on your own."
"Oh," Andres said, simultaneously enlightened and even more bewildered. "Oh, no, don't--don't worry about--I don't need help with Xavi. I can handle that."
"You know, I'm pretty sure you can." Raul ruffled Andres' hair briefly. He looked more than tired, Andres thought. He looked old, and unhappy, and Andres didn't know what to say to him; he stared down at the floor, feeling inexplicable tears prick at his eyes. "You're a good kid," Raul said, almost to himself. "You'll be all right. Come on, let's get on the bus before it leaves without us."
*
Thirty minutes, give or take. Thirty minutes on the pitch with Xavi, in a scrambling mess of a game against Saudi Arabia. It should have felt better; it should have felt like he'd got what he was waiting for. The anger bubbling up inside him instead at how wrong everything had gone frightened him. Andres just wanted to drag Xavi back out there and kick the ball around until it felt right again. "Three points are three points," Puyi said cheerfully, back in the locker room. "Top of the group, even! Smile, little brother." He pressed a quick kiss to the top of Andres' head, and almost against his will Andres felt his lips twitch upward. "Congratulations on your start," Puyi added, more quietly. "To many more."
He bounded off before Andres could think of anything to say in return, over to the corner where Xavi stood forehead pressed to forehead with a cranky-looking Villa while the rest of the room celebrated. "We'll be better next round," Andres heard him say, with the unshakeable confidence that made Puyi such a good captain. Guaje leaned into the arm Puyi had slung around his shoulder for a moment, looking away--looking at Raul, Andres thought. He didn't really understand Villa, but he could maybe sympathize.
Xavi just grunted.
After Pepe descended on them and swept Guaje and Xavi away, Andres caught Puyi's eye. "Tomorrow, can you--?"
Puyi looked thoughtful. "Yeah, after supper, I think. Do you want me to--"
"No, I'll ask them." Andres bumped into Puyi's side; he couldn't reach all the way to his shoulder without standing on tip-toe. It was nice, not to have to explain.
*
"Can I talk to Pepe?" Andres asked. Villa eyed him narrowly.
"And you want me out of the room, right?" Andres bit his lip, and Villa snorted. "Fucking cule business. What do they teach you at that fucking farmhouse, state secrets or witchcraft," he muttered, but he let Andres into the room and slipped out himself before the door swung shut.
"What's going on, Andresito?" Pepe asked. "Is everything all right?"
"I need a favor," Andres said.
*
Cesc was trickier, because he was never alone. In the end Andres gave up on secrecy and asked during lunch. Marchena and Marcos Senna magisterially ignored them on either side, but Casillas looked up from across the table. "You need a goalie, too?"
"I already asked Pepe," Andres said, irrationally annoyed at his nosiness. Then he realized how sharply he'd spoken and added, "But I'll, uh. Let you know."
Cesc started chattering to Joaquin about some English television show he was watching and distracted the rest of the table, but the suspicious look on Casillas' face stayed there for an unnervingly long time.
*
"Where are we even going? We're supposed to be in bed early, if someone catches us leaving the hotel--"
"Would you just trust me and shut up for a minute?" Andres said, more distracted than impatient. To his surprise, Xavi did as he asked and allowed himself to be towed out into the hotel's back garden without further protest. "Here. We're not leaving the hotel and we'll be back in our rooms by curfew. No one is going to care, all right?"
"You're late," Pepe called, interrupting whatever Xavi had been about to say. "Show some respect, eh?"
"Cesc's later," Andres said confidently. He didn't actually know if Cesc had come down yet or not, but it was an easy guess; Cesc was always late. "Did you figure out where to put the goal?"
Pepe's grin flashed in the slowly dying light as he slapped one of the trees on either side of him. "This'll do."
"What if the ball goes over the wall?" Puyi asked. He must have come up behind Andres while they were talking; he just ruffled Xavi's hair and drifted over to inspect Pepe's makeshift goal with a faintly critical air.
"So don't kick it that high," Pepe retorted. Puyi grunted.
Xavi leaned in close enough to breathe in Andres' ear; Andres jumped. "All this for a kickabout?" he asked quietly.
"Sorry, sorry!" Cesc called, barreling out the door. "I forgot where I put the ball! I'm here now! Sorry!"
"You'd forget where you put your damn head," Pepe said. "Give me your room key."
"What?" Cesc had stopped short in the middle of the garden, and now he turned to blink at Pepe, still clutching his football to his chest.
"You're going to lose it if you leave it in your pocket," Puyi agreed. "Give it to Pepe."
"Are you just going to put it in your pocket? What if it falls out?"
"Then it'll be easy to find, because it'll be on the ground in the goal," Pepe said with exaggerated patience. "Come on, empanao, we don't have all night."
"I'm not that absent-minded," Cesc muttered, but he handed over the key. Then he paused, considered, and gave Pepe his cell phone, too. "Whose team am I on?"
"You're with me." Puyi slung a companionable arm around his shoulders, grinning. "Show them what you're made of, kid. You want to flip for kick-off?" he added to Xavi.
"You can take it," Andres said generously. Xavi still looked bemused when he glanced over at him; Andres caught his wrist and pulled him around to face Puyi and Cesc, their backs to the goal. "Come on," he added, almost in a hiss, just for Xavi's ears. "Just play with me."
He wasn't sure Xavi got it, but he was already waiting for the blind pass the first time Andres stole the ball off Cesc. Xavi passed it back again without even looking to see where he was, and at least for half an hour, Andres knew he was okay, because he could feel him.
"Ugh, you fucking cheaters," Cesc grumbled, after Pepe had sat down on top of the ball and flatly refused to play anymore. He and Puyi had had to team up with Pepe against Xavi and Andres in the end, and they'd still scored an embarrassing number of times. "We didn't have a bondpair, that wasn't fair at all."
Xavi was leaning against Puyi's shoulder and laughing, still breathless and exhilarated. Andres looked at him and felt a helpless smile tugging at his mouth. "So? We didn't have a defender," he said to Cesc. "Don't be a sore loser."
"Whatever," Cesc said, not bothering to dispute the accusation. They were all sore losers; Cesc was just worse at hiding it. "If I'd had my bondmates we would've kicked your ass." He scowled fiercely when Andres laughed and apparently missed the startled look Pepe threw at him; Andres made a mental note to explain later about Cesc and Leo and Geri.
Andres had thought he'd seen a flicker out of the corner of his eye from the now-dark doorway while they were playing, like light off of glass, but there was no one there when they headed back inside. He must have been imagining things, he decided, and didn't give it a second thought. He went straight to bed and slept better than he had in weeks, holding tight to the memory of Xavi's presence at the back of his mind, the way it was supposed to be.
*
Between training and Xavi and the upcoming match against France, Andres had almost forgotten the plans they'd made for Leo. They couldn't really do anything special to celebrate, not like they would have if it had been during the season instead of international break, but Andres was glad they'd at least remembered to wish him a happy birthday. He knew it would make Leo smile when he saw the shirt they'd had made for him and the pictures of them all; it didn't balance out the fact that Xavi had shut him out again the morning after the kickabout in the garden, but it was better than nothing.
Cesc was weirdly quiet all day, through lunch and training and dinner, and he trailed Andres up to his room afterward instead of tagging along with Joaquin or Puyi. "Do you think I'm a bad person?" he asked suddenly. Andres almost dropped his keycard.
"What?"
"Because I--I left them. They're my bondmates and I left them and I don't even miss them sometimes and I can't--I can't--"
"Cesc," Andres interrupted. "Breathe. And mother of god, don't talk about that out in the hallway. Come inside."
Cesc shuffled into the room and sat on the bed while Andres pulled the door shut behind them. "Leo's all right, isn't he?" he asked, almost pleadingly.
"You'd know better than I would," Andres said, bewildered. "Did something happen? Why are you upset?"
"I left them," Cesc said. "And I tried to tell him happy birthday but I can't even feel him anymore and--and only a horrible person would leave his bondmates, right," he finished, hunching in on himself. Usually the force of his personality made him seem bigger and older than he was, but right then he looked even younger than nineteen.
"I don't think you're a horrible person," Andres snapped, unable to stop himself. "I think you were stupid. Cesc, you got bonded when you were thirteen! Do you have any idea how lucky you were that you could leave? It could have gone wrong and you could all be dead or crazy. It could have gone right and you'd be stuck together for the rest of your lives! If you're all right and Geri's all right and Leo's all right, just be grateful," he added, more gently, because Cesc had gone white under his tan. "Stop worrying about things you can't control."
"But Leo is all right?" Cesc bit his lip. "At least I can talk to Geri. Leo's impossible. And I just, I don't know. I can't feel him anymore."
"Leo is fine. It's been three years, I think we'd all know if he wasn't. He's fine, you're fine. There's no point in talking more about it, all right? Of course you can't feel him. You're not teammates anymore."
"If we hadn't played together for thirty years, he'd still be my bondmate," Cesc said fiercely.
Andres didn't bother to argue; Cesc was right about that, at least. He put his arm around his shoulders instead and sat in silence for a while, until he'd felt all the anxious tension seep out of Cesc's body, before he finally said, "All right, brat, out of my room. Go get some rest. You need to be ready for France."
"You too," Cesc retorted as he got to his feet. He was smiling, Andres saw with an internal sigh of relief. He had enough trouble with his own bondmate without worrying about other people's. "Hey, about what you said," Cesc added, one hand on the doorknob. "Are you and Xavi stuck together for the rest of your lives, then?"
Not for the first time, Andres realized that Cesc was a lot smarter than he looked. "Yes," he said at last. He didn't usually think about it in those terms. He didn't ever want to leave Xavi; the fact that if he tried it would hurt him a lot worse than the occasional dizzy spell was irrelevant. But that didn't make it any less true or any less scary, and he wasn't about to lie to Cesc, either. "But it was my decision, and I'm not sorry."
*
Villa converted the penalty, and for a moment--for thirteen minutes worth of moments--Andres and a nation believed. Then Ribery scored. Then Vieira, then Zidane, and then it was over, again.
*
Casillas looked awful when he opened his door, but Andres couldn't spare the attention to worry. He could feel Xavi even before he saw him over Casillas' shoulder, sitting on the bed and radiating misery in all directions. "I need to talk to Xavi," Andres said. He hadn't planned to wait for a response, but Casillas didn't move out of his way.
"I don't think now is a good time," Casillas said.
Andres glanced up at him very quickly before returning his gaze to Xavi's hunched shoulders. "No, you don't understand. I need to talk to Xavi."
"Look," Casillas said firmly. "I know Xavi usually looks after you, but he's got enough on his plate right now already without--"
You coming along and making it worse, Andres finished in his head, anger starting to boil up under his incredulity. He was about to shove past Casillas to get to Xavi, the small crowd of curious footballers forming behind him in the hall be damned, when Casillas took the decision out of his hands by gripping his shoulders and gently pushing him away. Xavi's head snapped up, and the directionless unhappiness in the room suddenly coalesced into fury. "Get your hands off him," Xavi hissed.
"Oh, shit," Andres said.
"What?" Casillas asked, not moving.
"Don't you ever fucking touch him--" Xavi shouted, already on his feet and advancing toward them. Andres shrugged out of Casillas' suddenly loose hold and bolted to Xavi before he could do anything he would really regret.
"Xavi, Xavi, no, stop it, I'm fine, stop it," he said hurriedly. "Xavi, come on, please, don't--"
Xavi wasn't actually listening, but he would have had to shove Andres out of the way to get to Casillas, and he wouldn't do that no matter how angry he was. Andres kept muttering to him anyway. He thought his voice might get through, even if the words didn't. Somewhere behind him he heard Pepe say very loudly, "Okay! Everybody out, Xavi and Andresito need some alone time!" Andres registered that enough to be grateful he wouldn't have to deal with Casillas, and started herding Xavi back to the bed.
"What the fuck," Casillas said.
"Cule business, don't you worry your pretty head," Pepe said. Andres could hear their feet scuffling on the carpet as he dragged Casillas away.
"You don't even play for Barcelona, asshole," Villa said, and then thankfully the door shut behind them and left Andres alone with Xavi.
"Xavi, stop it," he tried. "I'm fine, see? No harm done." Xavi was still making horrible snarling noises in the general direction of the door, presumably because Iker was on the other side. Andres pushed him down onto the bed, and sat on him when he immediately tried to get back up again. "Xavi, quit it right now," Andres snapped.
Xavi stopped struggling and blinked up at him. "I just yelled at Iker, didn't I," he said blankly after a long moment. Andres could feel his body start to tremble in reaction underneath him. "I could have--I don't. I. I think I--I wanted to rip out his throat."
"That's okay," Andres soothed. It kind of wasn't, but he didn't care about that when Xavi was upset. "I yell at Victor all the time."
Xavi still looked dazed, and maybe a little incredulous. "I've known you for years and I have never seen you yell at Victor. I've never even seen you get angry with him. I don't think I've seen you yell once in your life."
Andres snorted. "Okay, maybe I don't yell, but I get mad all the time, even with Victor. Especially with Victor. And I make sure he knows it, too. He forgives me, and I forgive him. Iker will understand." Xavi seemed calm enough, so Andres shifted off of him and scooted backwards until he could lean against the headboard. Xavi curled up against him, cheek resting on Andres' thigh. "You'll tell him you're sorry, and it'll be fine. You'll see," Andres said gently, and started running his fingers through Xavi's hair. The shaking seemed to go away a little, so he kept doing it.
Andres was happy to let the silence stretch out until Xavi fell asleep, but after a few minutes Xavi rolled over to look up at him and said slowly, "I don't… do all that well without you anymore, you know."
"You play without me all the time," Andres pointed out.
"Oh, football," Xavi dismissed, for possibly the first time in his life. "The football is fine--well, no, I still don't like the way we're playing, but that's not what I--I get angry more often when you aren't there, and I can't sleep, or if I do sleep I have nightmares, so I'm tired and angry, so I yell. And I miss you. I never told you that when I was gone for international breaks. It isn't your responsibility and I don't like it when you worry and part of it is the football, but that's why I've been so hard to deal with. I'm sorry."
"Oh," Andres said, slightly shell-shocked. After two years, getting Xavi to talk about himself in any context except football was still like pulling teeth; even when Xavi wasn't blocking him, he could only tell what he was feeling, not why. "That's okay," he added automatically. "I want to worry about you. Or, I mean, no, I don't want to, but if there's going to be something someone should be worried about, I want--oh, you know what I mean."
"I do," Xavi agreed, smiling, and opened up to Andres properly for the first time since they'd been called up for the summer. There was still some lingering anger and bitterness bleeding out, but mostly Andres just felt how much he was loved. "You are," Xavi said quietly. "I don't show you enough, but you are."
"I know." Andres yawned, feeling the whole day--the France match, losing the France match, the fight with Casillas--suddenly catch up with him. And he hadn't even played. Most of the exhaustion was spillover from Xavi, but it still felt real enough. He knew he should ask Xavi why he'd shut him out, that he would probably never have as good a chance of getting a real answer again, but he didn't want to; he just wanted to sleep. It was over, anyway. Xavi had let him in again and they were going home to Barcelona and he didn't have to worry about it anymore, he told himself, and firmly squashed the guilty voice that reminded him he hadn't exactly matched Xavi's level of honesty. Calming him down was more important, anyway; Xavi didn't need to know about the dizzy spells or the mood swings that Andres was now, in retrospect, starting to suspect were symptoms rather than random coincidence. "Come on, you're tired, you can go to sleep now. I'll stay."
He slid down to the bed and let Xavi squirm around until he had them both arranged to his satisfaction. "Fucking round of sixteen," Xavi grumbled, already half-asleep. Andres couldn't reach the lamp-switch with Xavi's arms wrapped around him, but the light didn't seem to be bothering Xavi, so he decided to leave it alone. "Didn't even make the goddamn quarterfinals."
Andres laughed and kissed Xavi, for no better reason than that he felt like it. "We'll win it next time."
*
The lamp was still on when Andres woke up, which was somehow even more disorienting than a strange room in pitch blackness. "--worry," Casillas was saying quietly. "Raul and I covered for you with the coach. He wasn't angry."
"Thanks," Xavi said, equally quiet. "Iker--Iker, I--"
"I'm sorry," Casillas blurted. "I didn't--I wasn't--"
"No, I'm--" Xavi said, right on top of him. They both laughed nervously. "I'm sorry," Xavi said, more firmly. "I shouldn't have acted like that. It wasn't your fault."
"It wasn't yours either." Andres cracked his eyelids open just a little bit, but all he could see was the fabric of Xavi's shirt. "I didn't--I get it now, okay," Casillas said in a rush. "It's okay. I'll--don't worry. I get it now. It's okay."
"Okay?" Xavi sounded more confused than reassured.
"So, I'll go sleep in your room," Casillas added. "But we have to leave tomorrow, and I'll have to come pretty early in the morning to pack my stuff. So."
"It's your room--Andres and I can--"
"No, it's okay," Casillas repeated. "Don't wake him up. I'll see you in the morning."
"Okay. Iker--Iker, thanks."
"You don't have to thank me for anything," Iker said, his voice weird and stuffy, and then, very quickly, "you're my best friend, you know I'd never--you can trust me, okay? Sleep well."
Andres heard the door swing shut almost before Iker got the last syllable out, and Xavi exhaled slowly under his ear. "Sorry we woke you," he said.
"That's okay. Is everything all right?" Andres asked. He tried to sit up, but Xavi just tightened his arms around him.
"Everything's fine. Go back to sleep."
"I was just going to turn out the light," Andres said.
"So fussy, Andresito," Xavi teased, but he felt and sounded strangely tense; Andres wondered if maybe he was cold, but he couldn't sense any physical discomfort coming from him. Xavi leaned back, switched off the lamp, and immediately put his arm back around Andres' shoulders. "Go back to sleep," he repeated. Andres squirmed closer to him, and he finally relaxed. "We're leaving tomorrow."
"Okay," Andres yawned. His face was now sort of smushed into Xavi's chest; it was surprisingly comfortable. Just before he dropped off, he felt Xavi press a kiss to the top of his head, and he sighed as he slid into dreams.
*
Andres had turned his phone off for a few days while he was on vacation, but Victor and Xavi and his family had known where he was and how to get hold of him, so he was surprised to find a series of text messages waiting for him when he turned it back on. They were almost all from Casillas, and ranged in content from I'm sorry for being so insensitive earlier, of course I'll support you if you need anything to if you hurt Xavi, I will murder you and bury your bones behind my goal at the Santiago Bernabeu, and NO ONE WILL EVER FIND YOU. Andres stared at that last message for a few minutes. "I think Casillas thinks I'm sleeping with Xavi," he said at last.
Victor looked up from Andres' kitchen table, where he'd established himself with over a week's worth of back issues of Marca. Andres didn't understand why he would want to read a Madrid paper--Andres never even brought them into his house; he didn't see the point when he knew they would never have anything pleasant to say about him or his teammates--but he caught Victor and Xavi discussing them every once in a while. Xavi was an incurable gossip, though, and sometimes Andres thought Victor just liked having something to be mad about. "You do sleep with Xavi. I room with you on away trips. The fact that he crawls into bed with you whenever we have a tough game is kind of hard to miss."
"You're not very helpful," Andres said absently, still fixated on Casillas' texts and the slightly horrifying prospect of actually replying to them, and didn't think to add that Xavi hadn't ever come to his room in Germany, not even the night before they played France. "Iker Casillas thinks I'm having sex with Xavi. He said he's going to bury my bones in the Bernabeu."
Victor stiffened visibly. "He said what." He no longer sounded even remotely amused.
"Untwist your panties, I don't need you to defend my honor." Andres rolled his eyes. "Didn't you do the exact same thing to Xavi when I got bonded?"
"I did no such thing, and if Xavi says I did, he's lying," Victor sniffed. "And if I had, I would never have threatened to dig up our pitch. Why exactly does Casillas think you and Xavi are sleeping together?"
"Um," said Andres. "When we--there was--the France game was hard," he finished carefully. "And Xavi was… upset." Victor eyed him sidelong, and Andres sighed and admitted, "Casillas tried to kick me out of his room and Xavi screamed at him. I've never seen him that angry. It was kind of scary. I made Pepe promise not to tell you, don't be mad at him. And also it was kind of creepy that you made Pepe spy on me in the first place."
"Friends keep track of each other," Victor said dismissively. "Don't change the subject. Isn't it a good thing if Casillas thinks you and Xavi are… I mean, it's not like you can explain what's really going on."
Andres made a face. "It's so stupid. He's Xavi's best friend. He wouldn't tell anybody if Xavi told him about us."
"Andres, you can't," Victor said, alarmed. "It's not--look, Casillas is probably a good guy, Xavi wouldn't be friends with him if he wasn't. But he's not from Barcelona. He wouldn't get it."
"I wasn't going to," Andres said. "I'm not an idiot, okay? But I don't--Xavi and I barely played together all tournament. What's the point, if we can't even tell our coach--"
"So you show him at Barcelona that you're better together than apart." Victor did not look sympathetic to this line of argument. "If he's paying attention he'll see. If he isn't, he wouldn't listen anyway."
"I know. I know." Andres glared at his generally inoffensive refrigerator for a moment, then flung himself down into the chair beside Victor and buried his face in his arms. "Sorry," he mumbled.
"Hey. It's me, don't worry." Andres felt Victor run a hand through his hair, more carefully than usual. "What's wrong?"
"Xavi needed me," Andres said unhappily. "I didn't--I don't know, I just wanted to stay out of the way, you know? I thought he'd be fine. He's always been fine. Even last year when he was injured, he didn't need anything from me. But he needed me to be there, and I wasn't. He wouldn't let me. He's my bondmate and I wanted to help him and I couldn't."
"So you'll work hard, and you'll get better, and next time you'll be there." It wasn't even that Victor sounded confident; he sounded like doubt had never so much as crossed his mind. Andres couldn't quite bring himself to say that just playing together wasn't the point, or not all of it. Not anymore. "You're already the best," Victor added simply. "Everyone else will see that soon enough."
Andres smiled involuntarily and lifted his head off the table to knock it into Victor's shoulder. "You're my best friend, you have to say that."
"Lucky for me that it happens to be true, huh?" Victor smiled back at him. "And it's just a thought, but you might want to try actually talking to Xavi about what's bothering you. I know you think your freaky telepathy can handle everything, but sometimes words are helpful."
Talk to Xavi. The thought made his stomach twist into knots, which more than anything told him he needed to: as much as he hated the idea, it was his turn to confess. Xavi deserved a better bondmate than one who might pass out or swing from rage to tears without warning whenever he was separated from him, but even more than that, Xavi deserved a bondmate who would be honest with him. "When did you get this smart?" Andres asked.
"Oh, I've always been a genius," Victor said cheerfully. "You just weren't smart enough to listen."
*
After Victor left, Andres got into his car and drove to Xavi's house, and then he sat there for a few minutes, trying to work up his nerve. Finally he reached out and brushed the edge of Xavi's consciousness, sort of the mental equivalent of knocking on a door or tapping his shoulder. He immediately felt a rush of surprise and welcome, and by the time he had walked up to the door Xavi had opened it and was standing in the threshold, waiting for him. "I didn't want to interrupt, if you had your friends over or your family was visiting," Andres said.
"They decided to let the bear alone to sulk in his cave for a while," Xavi said lightly. Andres looked him over--he was wearing a training outfit from two years ago and there was no gel in his hair, but at least he hadn't stopped shaving--and decided he was mostly joking. "Come in, keep me company."
Andres followed Xavi into his living room. The television was on; he immediately recognized the match as a replay of France against Italy. "Xavi," he said reproachfully.
"What? Oh." Xavi grabbed the remote off the couch and muted the television. Andres kept frowning until Xavi rolled his eyes and changed the channel; some unrecognizable Asian team was playing another in grainy, off-color display. "Happy now?"
"Thank you," Andres said mildly. He sat down and folded his hands in his lap, waiting. Xavi was only patient on the pitch; it didn't take long.
"Not that I'm not happy to see you," he said, settling on the far edge of the couch, "but why are you here?"
"I wanted to talk to you." Andres tried to go on, but the words dried up in his throat. He suddenly sympathized with Xavi, after all the times he'd been angry with him for not telling him things: how was he supposed to admit that he'd kept secrets of his own, when he still didn't want to tell Xavi what they were?
Xavi looked at him, puzzled, and moved closer, but Andres shook his head when he reached out to touch his arm. Victor was right; some things needed to be said aloud. "I should have been more honest with you in Germany," he finally managed, carefully. "About what you said the night we lost."
Xavi's face twisted ever so slightly, and Andres wished now he'd let Xavi touch him, because he didn't know what that look meant. "Andrew, I didn't want--"
"Please," Andres interrupted. "I need--I need to tell you."
"You don't--"
"I get sick when you're gone," Andres blurted. Xavi fell silent, his outstretched hand still hanging in the air. "You said you can't sleep, you get angry, but I get dizzy and I get upset at everything and I want--I don't want to be a burden," he said, choosing his words as carefully as he could. "I don't want you to feel like you have to--to stay with me, or for me. But I let you think it was only you, and it's not. It never was."
"Andres," Xavi said. He put his arm around Andres' shoulders, and even though it had only been a week, a knot inside his chest that he hadn't known was there relaxed. "Andres, I'm so sorry."
"It's not your fault," Andres muttered. He let his head tilt onto Xavi's shoulder and sighed. He was fairly certain it made him a bad person to be relieved that Xavi was as trapped as he was. He just wasn't sure he cared.
"I think maybe it is," Xavi said. His fingers closed down on Andres' arm hard enough to bruise, then abruptly let go. "This isn't the way it's supposed to work. But I--because I--"
"It's not, I asked Emili," Andres said, startled. "Years ago. Sensitive and compatible are different things. It's not you, it's both of us. You thought this whole time--Xavi, that's ridiculous, why didn't you tell me?" He paused, thinking, and then added slowly, "Why didn't I know?"
"I don't have to let you feel everything I feel," Xavi snapped. Andres flinched as though he'd been struck across the face, and Xavi tensed against the need to soothe away the sting; Andres could feel that clear as day, whatever he said. "And that isn't what I meant."
"So what did you mean?" Andres asked sharply. He'd been slamming against unexpected walls with Xavi since before Germany, and he was sick of it. The World Cup was over. They were supposed to be all right again. Xavi started making apologetic, vaguely conciliatory noises, and Andres realized with rising outrage that he was just going to wallpaper over his entire outburst; he had no intention of answering the question.
Under almost any other circumstances he would have let it go. After a month of dealing with a bondmate who repeatedly shut him out, after thinking things were fixed and now realizing that they were still somehow broken, it was the last straw. He grabbed at Xavi's hand, ignored his jerk of surprise, and shoved so hard that layers of walls he hadn't even known Xavi kept between them cracked open, and Andres fell headlong into the heart of them, where all Xavi's secrets were bleeding out.
"Oh," Andres said, what felt like an instant or half an eternity later. He blinked, trying to focus his eyes, and realized that the television looked different because it was the ceiling.
"Why would you--don't ever do that again!" Xavi said furiously. Andres winced and shut his eyes; he felt dizzy and nauseous, almost hungover, and the mix of Xavi's anger and fear was less intense now that he'd been thrown out of his head, but it was still overwhelming. "I keep you out of there for a reason! How dare you--"
"Stop, stop." Andres clawed blindly for a handhold to pull himself upright. He caught the edge of the seat cushions, and Xavi immediately leaned down to help him, worry mixing with the bad temper radiating from him in waves. When Andres finally climbed back up onto the couch he was ready to collapse, his ears still ringing. The parts of Xavi's mind that he didn't usually let Andres into were terrifyingly loud.
Xavi started to get up, and Andres put an arm across his chest. "Don't even think about it," he said, eyes still closed. Xavi stayed, and Andres waited: waited until the world stopped feeling like it was moving around him, waited until his stomach was no longer lurching with every tiny shift, waited until Xavi's body felt like flesh and not a block of stone. Then he opened his eyes, turned to Xavi and kissed him.
"Stop," Xavi said. His voice sounded like he'd swallowed ground glass.
"I know you want this," Andres said. "I want you to have it."
"I don't want it if you don't want it!"
"Well, I don't want it if you don't want it either, I'm not a rapist," Andres snapped. "So either we both do or neither of us does, and that's fine, but I'm not going to pretend I don't know which when I just saw it!"
"You had no right--"
"You're my bondmate! I have every right, and I want to--"
"You don't, you didn't, you fucking wanted me to stop--"
"What are you talking about?"
"In Madrid! You wanted me to stop, I felt it! You told me to stop hovering, you flinched if I even touched you, you acted like you'd rather sit in your room emailing Victor than spend time with me--I can take a fucking hint."
"That--what--" Andres stared, at a complete loss for words. He couldn't remember doing even half of that, but more than that, how could Xavi have possibly misunderstood his discomfort at being around strangers so badly? They were bonded. They were supposed to just know. "I was just--Casillas was always there, I didn't, I don't--what?" He shook his head violently when Xavi started to speak. "That isn't what I meant at all! I was just trying to--how am I supposed to know what you want if you don't tell me?"
"That's why I didn't tell you," Xavi said, with terrible finality. "I can't--I want you to touch me and you touch me. I want you to kiss me and you kiss me. You did it in Germany and you're doing it now! I want you to stay and you will because I make you sick when you leave and I couldn't live with myself if I made you--Andresito, I know you think you want this but--"
"Fuck. You," Andres spat, and watched Xavi's eyes go wide. "Do you think I can't decide what I want for myself? Do you think I wouldn't know if I did something just because you wanted me to? I am not your child, I am your partner, so fucking act like it. I don't want you to protect me, I need you to trust me. I chose this. I chose you."
"This wasn't exactly what either of us had in mind at the time," Xavi said.
"What difference does it make if we planned it or not? Xavi. I love you, and I want this. It doesn't matter why. I just do." Andres paused, watching and weighing Xavi's reaction. "If you won't believe me, will you let me show you?"
He kept his eyes fixed on Xavi's face, and he saw as much as felt the instant Xavi gave in. Still, he moved slowly, giving Xavi the chance to back away. He didn't, and Andres saw his eyes flutter shut moments before their lips met again.
For a moment it was a strange anticlimax, the dry touch of closed mouths, and Andres wondered if he'd made a mistake. Then Xavi pulled him further in, and he could feel everything. It felt like he was drowning, weighed down and suffocating, all sense of direction gone. But he wasn't lost; Xavi was with him. He found his balance, and then he remembered how to breathe.
*
"What are you doing," Andres mumbled into the cushion beneath his face. He lifted his head just enough to glare. "Stop it."
"We're going to have an interesting preseason if you won't let go of me," Xavi said mildly. "I'm just getting some water, I'll be right back."
"Mmph." Andres flopped back down and made no effort to help Xavi squirm out from under him. He waited, listening to the sounds of Xavi rummaging around in the kitchen, until he heard his footsteps coming back, and then projected his thirstiness at him as strongly as he could. It was petty but satisfying.
"You could have just asked," Xavi told him. There was a glass of water inches away from his face when he opened his eyes. Andres weighed his options and reluctantly sat up before accepting it, the fabric of the couch peeling uncomfortably from his skin. "You're welcome."
"It's a little pointless to pretend to be annoyed at me when I can feel you're not," Andres observed. He leaned over just far enough to bump his shoulder against Xavi's and then sat back to drink his water in peace.
Xavi slouched down a little and put his head on Andres' shoulder. "Appearances must be maintained," he said.
"You'd better maintain an appearance of happiness, then," Andres said. "Since Casillas is threatening to murder me and hide my body in the Bernabeu if I break your heart."
"Iker is what? Oh, god." Xavi covered his eyes with his palms, wincing. "That brat, I'll kill him."
"Be glad you have such a fearsome champion," Andres teased. "I'm shaking in my boots."
"Isn't it a pity that you don't want me to protect you from anything anymore? I'm sure I could manage to keep you safe from Iker, if only…"
"Maybe I'll tell Victor that you're not treating me right," Andres mused. "Maybe I'll tell him you made me cry."
Xavi was quiet for too long; the joke died in the air. "Maybe he'd be right to be angry," he said at last. Andres rumpled his hair--he almost never had a chance to touch it before Xavi put an inhuman amount of product in it--and he only sighed, but when he prodded at him mentally, he flinched. "Stop that."
"Xavi," Andres said, a low warning.
"I'm not shutting you out, all right? I won't. I promise. But I can't be open like that all the time. I hate it." An involuntary shiver ran through his body and knocked his elbow into Andres' side. "It's like walking around naked. And it's so loud."
Andres winced. If it was overwhelming for him to be completely open to Xavi, when he could barely hear a thing outside the bond, he couldn't imagine what it was like for Xavi. He hadn't thought about it at all. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.
"No, I didn't mean--Andrew." Andres could feel Xavi's frown, even though he couldn't see it. "I didn't mind. I wanted it. Just not all the time." He pushed against Andres' hand until he tentatively began stroking his hair again. "You should learn to block a little, anyway," he added, almost as an afterthought. "It's not fair that I can hear you so much better than you can hear me. You deserve your privacy."
"I don't care about that." Without thinking Andres twisted his fingers in Xavi's hair until he hissed in pain; he immediately let go, remorseful. "You know I don't have any secrets from you."
"You still have a right to have them. If not now, then later. Someday you're going to meet the person you want to marry, have children. You don't have to share everything with me." Xavi's voice was even; Andres didn't know what that cost him.
"I understand if it makes you uncomfortable," he said carefully. "If you want to be a little more separate that's okay. We're different people; I don't know if we even can be in each other's heads all the time, let alone if we should. I understand. But I wish you wouldn't use me as an excuse. I'm not going to leave you, not ever. I can't and I don't want to, and it wouldn't be fair to try. I love you." He looked down at the top of Xavi's head and then quickly away. "I know you know that but sometimes I think you don't understand what it means."
Xavi sat up and Andres pulled his arm away, letting it rest in his lap instead, but before he said anything Xavi tapped the back of his hand: offering but not assuming. Andres turned his palm up and tangled his fingers with Xavi's, and Xavi let him in. Not all the way; not enough to lose himself. Just far enough to feel the way Xavi felt about him wrap around him, warm and comforting. "I don't want you to feel trapped," Xavi said. "I don't want you to stay because you think you have to. But I do want you to stay."
"I'm going to stay because I want to. All right? So stop giving me a way out."
Xavi didn't answer out loud, but this time Andres didn't need him to.
*
Madrid, March 2007
"Starters against Denmark," Aragones said. "Albelda, Capdevila, Casillas, Hernandez, Iniesta, Lopez, Marchena, Morientes, Navarro, Silva, Villa. The lineup…"
The brush of Xavi's cold fingers against his knee made Andres jump, but not the words that ghosted into his mind. Time to show them what you're made of.
What we're made of, Andres corrected, and sat forward to listen to the rest of the technical chat. He wasn't nervous. He already knew what he and Xavi could do.