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It was late at night, the sound of the waves were rolling through the windows, joined by moonlight that illuminated the room in a soft glow. Xabi stepped out of the shower and ran a towel over his hair. The day had been – rough, to say the least. The only bright spot had been his penalty, which had been his first goal in far, far too long. The day had begun early with light training, stretching, tightening up their formation and play tactics. The match itself had been like something out of that American show, what was the one? Ah, yes, he though, The Twilight Zone. With a soft growl, he cursed the Oranje team for what hadn’t been just a defeat on the pitch, but a humiliation. He did have to hand it to Van Persie though; the man had had a beautiful goal. A derisive snort escaped as Xabi thought that the Dutchman might have missed a career in Cirque de Soleil.
In vain, Xabi wished that there was alcohol in his room, finding that a tumbler of brandy might help him relax after such a horrid day. Granted, he was tired enough that as soon as he laid down, Xabi had no doubt he would be out cold within seconds. Still, his mind continued to replay the match and the feelings of horror, sinking hope, and desperation. Just as he was rummaging for a pair of shorts, a soft tapping sounded against the sliding glass doors.
“What in the – ” he began to mutter.
He was still dressed in nothing but a towel, slung low about his hips. Thinking the sound to be one of the braches from the climbing rose growing near by, Xabi pushed the curtain back.
Standing there, grinning like a fool, was Steven Gerrard.
“St-Stevie,” Xabi finally managed, stunned more than anything else. He wrenched open the door then, reaching one hand out to yank the Englishman through and quickly closing the door after him. “What are you doing here?”
“To see you. What else?” Stevie asked, the cheeky grin still on his face. “I tell you, I feel like a teenager sneaking out of the house for the first time.”
“Hodgson will have a heart attack if he finds you gone,” Xabi said, eyes busy drinking in the sight of his lover standing before him in shorts and a polo shirt. The moonlight shining through the windows was practically caressing his skin and proving very distracting to Xabi.
Stevie shook his head. “Like he cares. He and the team are at the point of wondering when we’ll get married. The press are the only ones to worry about. And they’re all out celebrating and writing horrid pieces about the match today.”
Xabi turned away, walking back toward his dresser, fingers fidgeting with the edge of his towel. “You came to check on me, didn’t you?”
“What? No! I came to congratulate you about the goal. Fookin’ brilliant piece of footwork that was, Xabs.” When Xabi turned to look at him, Stevie squirmed slightly and then added, “A bit, yeah. I know how much that match meant to all of you. Right lot of buggers those Dutchmen are. They can all get knackered for all I care.”
At that, finally, a smile appeared on Xabi’s face. One corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile and then the rest followed. Stevie smiled in response; there was nothing like Xabi’s smile to make him happy. He came forward, twining his fingers with Xabi’s and pulling the Spanish midfielder forward into a gentle kiss. Stevie took his time exploring the taste of Xabi’s mouth, savoring the way Xabi relaxed and leaned into the touch, a quiet sigh emanating from him as the tension drained out of him.
“That’s more like it,” Stevie murmured, pulling back slightly to take in the sight of the moonlight creating sparkling points of light in Xabi’s deep brown eyes.
Xabi ducked forward, snagging one more kiss. He had a mischievous smile on his face. Stevie reciprocated, eagerly pulling Xabi to him. With Xabi thoroughly distracted, he managed to loosen the towel and then toss it across the room to land in a heap on the floor. Xabi quirked one eyebrow at that and Stevie’s grin widened.
“Well,” Xabi said, sharing his conspiratorial smile. “As long as you’re here…”
Some time later, they were curled up around one another in bed, limbs tangled and breathing in tandem. Stevie hummed happily, trailing his fingers up and down Xabi’s arm. Xabi had grown quiet and Stevie could tell he was thinking, mulling something over; the midfielder only worried his bottom lip like that when he had a troubling thought.
“What is it, Xabs?”
“You know – if we both make it out of the group stage, that we’ll – have to face each other, right?”
Xabi looked up then, worry clearly written in his eyes. Stevie reached up one hand to rub soothing circles with his thumb across Xabi’s cheek.
“I know. I looked at how the matches were arranged. But we knew that day might come, didn’t we? Too bad you’re not English – this whole thing would be a lot easier that way.”
Xabi snorted. “Please. You mean your team would be doing a lot better.”
“No room to talk,” Stevie responded and both shared a quiet laugh.
He kissed Xabi’s brow and pulled him close then. “Sleep, love. We’ll worry about it later. For now, we have this. And that’s all that matters.”
They fell asleep like that, trusting one another, finding solace and safety in their embrace, keeping the worries and fears of the tournament at bay.