![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
meretriculathings I have not accomplished this week: responded to email, made primers, done anything I was supposed to do. things I have accomplished this week: learned to make brownie batter milkshakes, watched El Círculo del 4, cried over El Círculo del 4, wrote a random snippet of the soulbonding universe. win some, lose some?
I believe in every breath you breathe
Andres followed Xavi to his room and then, when Xavi didn't say anything or even pause at the door, trailed inside after him. Victor would understand, he told himself, and spared a moment to feel horribly, guiltily grateful that he could run to Xavi now: that he wasn't trapped in a London hotel room with Victor after they'd lost the match and he'd allowed four goals. He could feel Xavi's anger and disappointment like the too-tight stretch of sunburn on his skin, but it was still easier to bear sometimes than the way Victor would curl in on himself, already wounded and determined to make it that much worse. "You can use my toothbrush," Xavi said briefly, and they carried out the small rituals of getting ready for bed in silence, moving around each other as easily as they did on the pitch -- although it hadn't helped much tonight, Andres thought, only a little bitterly. It hadn't been much of a lead they'd taken into the second leg, but it had been a lead all the same, and he'd really thought, this time, this time after they'd fought back from three goals down, when all they had to do was hold on --
Not that any of that mattered now.
The light was still on when Andres was finished with the bathroom, but Xavi was already in bed, tucked under the covers and staring straight up at the ceiling. "Hey," Andres said, and waited until Xavi turned to look at him before sliding into bed beside him. He looked so tired, too young for the creases across his forehead and at the corners of his eyes, and Andres fought against the urge to smooth them out with his fingertips. This wasn't something he could fix; all he could do was lie next to Xavi and hope that his presence helped somehow, the way Xavi's did for him. "Did you know your eyes are two different colors?" he asked suddenly. "I always thought it was just the light, but they really are different from each other."
Xavi blinked, and then a moment later he laughed. "One's a little darker than the other, that's all. The doctors have a fancy name for it, but it isn't anything more than that."
"Maybe that's why you see so well on the pitch," Andres teased. A shadow passed over Xavi's face, and Andres knew he was thinking about the match again: he was sorry for even bringing it up.
"It's okay," Xavi said in response to his unspoken apology, and forced a smile. "There's always next year, right?"
"Next year we're going to play the final of the Champions League," Andres said, so fiercely that Xavi flinched, but he kept smiling that horrible smile, one that belonged to someone who had said "next year" too many times. Andres didn't care: he was still young enough to believe and he meant it enough for both of them. "Next year we're going to win."
"Next year," Xavi agreed. "Now turn out the light and go to sleep, Andrew," he added, more lightly. "It'll be a long day tomorrow."
Andres obediently switched off the bedside lamp and curled up against Xavi, cold feet safely tucked away and the slowing in-and-out of Xavi's breath warm across the top of his head. Next year, he thought as he waited for sleep, his bone-deep awareness of Xavi's presence enough comfort to guarantee that it would come. He wasn't an arrogant person; he couldn't will himself to score out of simple self-belief like Sammy or Ronnie, or terrify strikers into shooting wide or high like Puyi. Still, he believed in Xavi, and he believed that together they could do anything they needed to.
Next year we'll win.
notes: this takes place in 2005, immediately after Barcelona lost 4-2 to Chelsea (5-4 on aggregate) at Stamford Bridge and were knocked out of the Champions League. some fairly obvious foreshadowing of Barcelona's '06 Champions League going on, although Andres isn't quite right: Xavi didn't play at all in the final. finally, Xavi appears to have a mild form of heterochromia iridis, although I've never seen any kind of official confirmation of it. his eyes are both brown but the right one is noticeably lighter than the left.
I believe in every breath you breathe
Andres followed Xavi to his room and then, when Xavi didn't say anything or even pause at the door, trailed inside after him. Victor would understand, he told himself, and spared a moment to feel horribly, guiltily grateful that he could run to Xavi now: that he wasn't trapped in a London hotel room with Victor after they'd lost the match and he'd allowed four goals. He could feel Xavi's anger and disappointment like the too-tight stretch of sunburn on his skin, but it was still easier to bear sometimes than the way Victor would curl in on himself, already wounded and determined to make it that much worse. "You can use my toothbrush," Xavi said briefly, and they carried out the small rituals of getting ready for bed in silence, moving around each other as easily as they did on the pitch -- although it hadn't helped much tonight, Andres thought, only a little bitterly. It hadn't been much of a lead they'd taken into the second leg, but it had been a lead all the same, and he'd really thought, this time, this time after they'd fought back from three goals down, when all they had to do was hold on --
Not that any of that mattered now.
The light was still on when Andres was finished with the bathroom, but Xavi was already in bed, tucked under the covers and staring straight up at the ceiling. "Hey," Andres said, and waited until Xavi turned to look at him before sliding into bed beside him. He looked so tired, too young for the creases across his forehead and at the corners of his eyes, and Andres fought against the urge to smooth them out with his fingertips. This wasn't something he could fix; all he could do was lie next to Xavi and hope that his presence helped somehow, the way Xavi's did for him. "Did you know your eyes are two different colors?" he asked suddenly. "I always thought it was just the light, but they really are different from each other."
Xavi blinked, and then a moment later he laughed. "One's a little darker than the other, that's all. The doctors have a fancy name for it, but it isn't anything more than that."
"Maybe that's why you see so well on the pitch," Andres teased. A shadow passed over Xavi's face, and Andres knew he was thinking about the match again: he was sorry for even bringing it up.
"It's okay," Xavi said in response to his unspoken apology, and forced a smile. "There's always next year, right?"
"Next year we're going to play the final of the Champions League," Andres said, so fiercely that Xavi flinched, but he kept smiling that horrible smile, one that belonged to someone who had said "next year" too many times. Andres didn't care: he was still young enough to believe and he meant it enough for both of them. "Next year we're going to win."
"Next year," Xavi agreed. "Now turn out the light and go to sleep, Andrew," he added, more lightly. "It'll be a long day tomorrow."
Andres obediently switched off the bedside lamp and curled up against Xavi, cold feet safely tucked away and the slowing in-and-out of Xavi's breath warm across the top of his head. Next year, he thought as he waited for sleep, his bone-deep awareness of Xavi's presence enough comfort to guarantee that it would come. He wasn't an arrogant person; he couldn't will himself to score out of simple self-belief like Sammy or Ronnie, or terrify strikers into shooting wide or high like Puyi. Still, he believed in Xavi, and he believed that together they could do anything they needed to.
Next year we'll win.
notes: this takes place in 2005, immediately after Barcelona lost 4-2 to Chelsea (5-4 on aggregate) at Stamford Bridge and were knocked out of the Champions League. some fairly obvious foreshadowing of Barcelona's '06 Champions League going on, although Andres isn't quite right: Xavi didn't play at all in the final. finally, Xavi appears to have a mild form of heterochromia iridis, although I've never seen any kind of official confirmation of it. his eyes are both brown but the right one is noticeably lighter than the left.
