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Guti hated this country, hated the weather, hated the incomprehensible Turkish yelled in his direction on the field. He’s fucking Guti, part of Real Madrid’s Galaticos, three Champions Leagues under his belt. No one has the right to tell him how to play fucking football.
The foolish crowd loved him, chanting his name with adoration. I hate you, Guti thinks, I hate you all.
Don’t be stupid, a voice calm and steady, and clearly not his, echoed in his head.
Fuck you, Guti replied mentally.
-
Coach tells him alcohol is banned from his diet plan. Guti thinks whatever the hell he puts in his system is nobody’s but his business alone. People talk and papers speculate which clubs he was seen partying at. He knows it’s bullshit because he spends most of his time drinking alone in a dark corner until the bouncer hauls his limp drunk ass out the back door.
He comes late to practice the next day, shuffling in at his own pace. Everyone on the field suddenly stops talking and stares at him and then back at their coach. Coach says nothing. I dare you, Guti thinks, I scored the first fucking win in your shitty rivals’ stadium in six years.
“What are you fools standing around for? Back to your drills!” The team starts moving again on the field, quiet whispers and chatter floats through the morning air.
Guti dumps his bag in the locker room and fishes out his phone.
Missed Call (6): Raul
He throws his phone back into his bag, not caring if it cracked.
-
You can’t drink and take your antidepressants at the same time , came the text in the middle of the night.
Quickly, Guti googles the time in Gelsenkirchen right now. Then he googles “can you take antidepressants and alcohol at the same time” before googling “what if you drink four hours after taking antidepressants”.
Guti: isnt it 1am right now, thats way past your bedtime
Guti stares at the tall glass of Raki on his table before furiously sending another text.
Guti: did you just assume im drinking again
Raul: Didn’t assume, I know you Guti. Why are you still awake then?
Guti: i have insomnia, you know this. im home. im not drinking
Raul: Then pick up the phone .
Immediately, his phone rings. Guti glares at the vibrating piece of metal on the bar table, before snatching it up with his hand. Quickly, he stumbles out of the bar as fast as his uncoordinated legs would allow him. He finds a quiet enough alley just in time to answer the call just as the dial tone ends.
“What.”
“That took you some time to pick up.”
“I was debating if I really want to get nagged by a man in a whole other country.” Guti hissed.
Raul laughs, a gentle low sound and Guti suddenly feels the fight drain out of him. He’s so lonely and cold in this dark wet alleyway.
“I know you aren’t home unless you decided to pick up the habit of running a bath in the middle of the night.”
Guti snaps his eyes to the drain nearby, the rush of the water now evident when he concentrates with his ears.
“Chema, go home.”
Raul is so far away.
“I have no home.” Guti doesn’t know if he was talking to Raul or himself.
“Chema…”
“Bye Raul.”
Guti hangs up and stares at the drain until the sun rises again across the horizon.
-
Guti doesn’t see the point of eating, he’ll end up throwing everything up when night comes anyways. Plus, he’ll get drunk faster if he drinks on an empty stomach.
His game isn’t affected, he’s scoring goals, providing assists, he’s still Guti.
He finishes the bottle of whisky in some hotel room, it tastes like shit, some cheap thing he picked up from the corner store. Still it burns well enough going down this throat. He crashes on the hotel bed. He can’t bear to go back to his apartment tonight, that empty house devoid of life. His things still sit packed in those cardboard moving boxes. He doesn’t want to take them out, because then he will feel this is now all real, Istanbul, Beşiktaş, the lights of the city of Madrid far, far away.
Sleep finally creeps into the corners of his vision and he dozes off to the chants of “Guti Guti Guti maricon!” in his head, the feel of Arancha’s hair tickling his face in the early mornings, and the feel of Raul’s wet sweaty lips brushing his forehead as the Bernabeu crescendos around them after a goal.
-
Guti dreams that he is a boy again and laying on the field of his childhood club. Raul appears above him, squinting down at him.
“What the hell are you wearing?”
Raul looks down at his own Atletico jersey and blushes.
“C’mon Chema, this is the only shirt I have left, all the others are in the wash.”
Guti snorts and turns away. “I refuse to play with a traitor.”
“I came all the way out here just because you said you want to practice some passes!” Guti hears Raul lie down next to him.
He shuts his eyes and pretends to go back to sleep.
“Wake up you jerk!” Raul jostles him and Guti hides his grin. “C’mon!”
“Wake up Chema.”
“Chema, I don’t think you’re supposed to doze off after a head injury.”
Guti groans and opens his eyes, and standing above him is El Ángel de Madrid himself, his edges illuminated by his ceiling lights like a holy halo.
“I can’t believe you still put a spare key under the flower pot at your door. That is a security risk surely.”
“I don’t have a head injury, I got discharged from the hospital.”
Raul sits down next to him on the bed, his hands stroking his hair.
“I just worry, you didn’t pick up your phone, and I saw the video on the news. What were you thinking? Driving home after drinking? You’re lucky no one got hurt on that bus. You’re lucky you’re not hurt.” I thought you were going to do something foolish, I thought you were going to hurt yourself more , these were left unsaid in the tense air between them.
The blonde smacks Raul’s hand off his head and angrily turns away, pulling the sheets over him. “F- Go away Raul, I don’t want to hear it.”
“Chema are you still taking-”
“Stop it Raul!” Guti shouts as he jumps out of the bed.
Raul stares at him with wide brown eyes and Guti feels something crack inside him. He’s wearing a white t-shirt and jeans with, with, god, a blue Schalke FC windbreaker.
“I am not taking my fucking pills if you’re asking and for fuck’s sake take off that ugly jacket.”
“Chema-”
“I’m so sick of being alone and unwanted, I should still be in Real Madrid, I stayed loyal didn’t I? Even when I was falling to pieces, they took me and taped me back together with pills and asked me to go back out there to fucking score, and I did that didn’t I? And then they tossed me aside like garbage, you tossed me aside like garbage and expect me to be okay-”
Strong hands gripped his face and Guti’s eyes snapped open, not realizing he'd shut them mid-rant. Raul’s face was impossibly close, the black irises swimming with hurt. His Schalke jacket lay on the floor beside the bed.
“I didn’t toss you aside like garbage,” Raul said softly, his voice wavering. “Don’t you ever say that to me. Please, Jose Maria.”
“I was so so afraid when they told me you hit a bus, and then I heard you were drunk? God, did you know how I felt thinking I lost you for good?”
“I swear I didn’t do it because… I don’t… I want to live.” Guti stammered, his own shaking hands reaching up to stroke Raul’s wet cheeks. He was always the more sentimental one, the first one to cry.
Crybaby , Guti remembered calling him when they lost to Barcelona's youth team, two young scrawny teenagers entwined in the shadows of their locker room. He had held the teary dark haired boy in his arms and kissed his tears away.
He goes through the same motion now and Raul lets out a broken whimper.
It’s all different now isn’t it, they are both old and tired, with aching joints and weary bones. It won’t ever be the same, would it?
Guti takes Raul’s hand and leads him to the bed. Silently, the two of them got under the sheets and immediately Raul’s arms wrapped themselves around Guti, pulling impossibly close and tight, as though Guti was going to disappear if he didn't hold on hard enough. The blonde brushes Raul’s dark hair away from his face and presses his own forehead against his.
This is still the same, it’s the same beautiful boy he met decades ago in a red Athletico jersey, graceful and lightning quick on the field. The same boy he kissed in his childhood bedroom and the same boy he jerked off in his hotel room when all his other Madrid teammates were drunk in the lobby celebrating their Champions League win.
“Chema,” Raul mutters into his hair, “go to sleep. I’m here.”
Guti buries his face in Raul’s neck and without pills or alcohol he falls asleep that night.
-
“If they keep doing that people will catch on.”
On the tv screen, Sergio takes both of Iker’s hands in his own hands and kisses him on the cheek.
“It’s Nene, he kisses everyone, I’m sure people won’t realize the difference.”
Guti huffs and folds his arms, “they never did that when we were around before. What gives?”
“Iker knows you won’t let him hear the end of it.” Raul smiled, his hand casually rubbing Guti’s knee. “Besides, they have done it before, just not at every match like now. You’ve seen them kiss and do more before you know.”
“I know! It’s just…” Not fair , Guti thinks, biting his lower lip.
“Chema, are you being bitter about this?”
Guti pouts, jerking his face away from Raul’s kiss on his cheek.
“You know it’s your idea that I wasn’t supposed kiss you on the field after a goal.”
“It’s because everyone calls me a faggot anyways, I just don’t want them to call you one too, you deserve better than that.”
Raul’s breathy chuckle tickles Guti’s ears and he turns to kiss Raul fully on the lips.
The announcer shouts about another fantastic save by San Iker but the game is long forgotten by the two men on the couch by then.