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Sergio wishes he could hate him. It would be so much easier, he thinks, if I could just hate him for it.
But he doesn’t, can’t hate Iker for the life of him. Instead, he just kicks the coffee table, splattering glass and papers and remote controls over the black, expensive rug. His chest is tight and his breath is uneven, and Sergio can’t do anything but follow after and crumble to the floor. A piece of a crystal glass pokes his ankle, not strong enough to cut the skin. He sobs into his hands until he has no tears left.
Sergio never knew a Real Madrid without Iker – now he did.
And it hurt.
--
Un segundo más. Un segundo más. Un segundo más.
Those were the words Sergio muttered to himself, arms wrapped around so tight around Iker he thought it would leave permanent marks on his pale shoulders and back. He took a deep breath, ignoring his throat closing and the feeling he was going to suffocate and die, in the middle of an airport.
Un segundo más.
“Nene” Iker whispered, just a cold, sad sigh on Sergio’s ears. Ramos closed his eyes. “Sergio. I have to go.” He said, voice hoarse.
“Just one more second” Sergio muttered. He wasn’t ready to let go. He’d never be ready to let Iker go.
“I need to go” Iker said, voice weak, and Sergio knew he wasn’t only talking about right now. Iker needed to go, he needed to leave. Leave Madrid. Leave Sergio.
It will be the best for everyone, he said. Including me, he added. I can’t take it anymore, Sese, he admitted. I’m sorry, he begged.
Sergio took a deep breath. Slowly, he disentangled his arms from Iker’s body, letting them fall to his side. The older man did the same. He could see that Iker’s eyes were red and his hands were shaking. Ramos bit his tongue to keep from saying I love you, please don’t go, stay, we’ll make this right, I love you so much, I can’t do it without you, stay, I’ll kill the old bastard, please stay, I love you, please stay.
He looked at Iker, eyes running over his face, memorizing. Purple bags under warm brown eyes. Wrinkles. Freckles. Dimples. Straight nose, shaved beard. Pale lips.
Sergio’s hands were trembling. He shoved them in his pockets.
He wanted to kiss him. He wanted to say screw discretion, hold Iker’s face and taste his lips one more time. He wanted to hug him again, whisper that he loved him, and beg him to stay. He wanted to drag him back to his house, to silently pull him to the bed and wrap his arms around him until they were a mess of tangled limbs and messy hair and calloused hands. He wanted to kiss his pain away, to heal his broken heart with cold lips and trembling eyelids and the absence of space between them. But he couldn’t.
“I’ll text you when we land” Iker said, and Sergio knew it was a lie. Iker wouldn’t text him or call him as much as he promised, because Iker is dumb and a fool and worse words that Sergio couldn’t think of right now. Sergio knew Iker, and Iker thought that distancing himself from things would make it easier. That distancing himself from Sergio would make it easier.
“Okay.”
“Take care of the team. Don’t let them do stupid shit on the games. And avoid the yellow cards” he gave Sergio the weakest of the smiles, and Sergio scoffed.
“Isn’t that what I’ve been doing my whole career?”
“Well, if that’s so, you’ve been shit at it.”
They both chuckled. Sergio’s throat was still tight and his mouth was still dry. He could feel his hands shake inside his pocket, so he closed them in tight fists. Silence again.
“Don’t let Martin be more Portista than a Madridista.”
“I won’t.”
Silence.
“This is not a goodbye” Iker said in a hurry, like the words were burning his tongue and he needed to spit it out. “I’ll see you soon.” Those were the same words he said in his farewell press conference. The same words he said to Real Madrid. Sergio quickly came to the conclusion that if Iker loved him as much as he loved Real Madrid, he’d be more than happy. It would be more than enough and everything he could ask for.
“I love you, Iker” he said, like he’d said multiple times before. This time the words were on a different frequency, though. They were holding so much more emotion and meaning that the words were heavy and filled the air with a different aura, making Sergio’s throat even tighter. His hands would not. Stop. Shaking. They shook so violently, he thought Iker could see them trembling through his closed fist, through his jeans’ pockets.
The corner of Iker’s mouth lifted – Sergio could see the dimples. He’d miss that too.
“I know” his voice was sweet, like the lazy mornings they shared together after winning important games. “I love you too. So, so much, Sese.”
Sergio couldn’t breathe. This was too overwhelming. His throat was too tight and his chest was too heavy. Iker had always been there. What would he do without him? What would Sergio do without the safe presence behind him in the pitch, screaming profanities at everyone and kissing his cheek before a game? Without the impatient sighs when Sergio did something stupid and the soft eyes after Sergio apologized. The nights sharing a cab back to whatever hotel they were staying, the tears of joy after La Decima, the goalie’s gloves hitting his head in a playful joke, young Iker trying to hide his lustful eyes in the locker room, Sergio drunkenly asking Iker to marry him-
“Nene, breathe.” Iker’s voice was calming, even though his brows were furrowed in worry. His calming voice. He would miss it so much. “It’s okay”
Sergio wanted to scream that no, it wasn’t okay in the slightest, but they had already done it – the screaming, the crying, the bargaining. It didn’t work. Iker was still going to Porto, and Sergio never knew a Real Madrid without Iker.
Nevertheless, he took a deep breath. Counted to ten. Bit his lips.
“I have to go now.” Iker said, suddenly not able to meet Sergio’s eyes. He fiddled with the ticket on his hands and sighed.
“Okay.” Sergio’s voice was weak.
“Bye, Sese.”
“See you soon, Iker.”
One last glance and Iker turned around, walking towards the plane he would take to Portugal. Leaving Real Madrid. Leaving Sergio.
Sergio stood there, feeling empty. Minutes later, he turned around and left, eyes wet.
--
He was sitting in his car, on the airport’s parking area. His windows were tinted and it was still pretty early for the place to be crowded with loud families and hectic business people. His hands were still shaking and his chest felt too heavy. He thought he was going to have a panic attack, because he didn’t know a Real Madrid without Iker. He couldn’t possibly –
He wouldn’t survive –
He already missed him so much: his captain, his best friend, his lover –
He rested his head on the steering wheel, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths. He wanted to cry. But he couldn’t. Not right now, he muttered to the crashing waves inside his head. Not right now.
He turned the engine on.
Time for him to know a Real Madrid without Iker.