Chapter Text
White
Having just woken up from his siesta, he starts getting ready for the second training session of the day. He does a couple of mini-workouts to re-energize himself even more. Ten pushups and sit ups along with a dozen jumping jacks does the trick. A ring calls out just after the warm up so he picks up the phone to hear his agent on the other end.
The agent tells him that a big and wealthy team has looked at him. He thinks of there being two large commercial teams in the country: FC Barcelona and Real Madrid. He’s informed that they will offer him a big contract that amounts to five years, and that there's a promise to play him often in his natural position and any others if necessary.
“Which one?” he asks impatiently, the idea of leaving Sporting de Gijon and what that could mean isn't hitting him just yet. He knows the worldly appeal that they both have. His home is small in influence and in size compared to them and their influence. He is a bit surprised that anyone was scouting him. He thought he was good, but not that good. “Which one is it?” he asks again.
He’s been to both places before while playing for Gijon. The differences between the two are clear. One is more modern while the other has an otherworldly feel to it. One is landlocked while the other has beaches. The language is easy to understand in the capital of Spain while there are two main ones in the capital of Catalonia. One is part of a country and the other feels like a completely different one.
The agent says, “Madrid.”
He accepts and imagines himself in all white, pulling the crest with pride.
---
From the first time he touches the glaringly white with bits of black jersey, he knows that something is off. Unlike when he feels his childhood club’s gear, he doesn’t get the spark with this lack of color in the jersey, there’s no shiver in his spine, no feeling of purpose building up within him either. All that’s felt is a vast amount of nothingness. He can’t ignore the suspicion that these next five years won’t be enjoyable.
Putting it on ends up being a task, the shorts are too big, the socks too tight, and each sleeve’s length changes from match to match. He never used to get acne or rashes, but now he has both around his elbows, knees, and back. Whenever he runs with the shirt, the ailments get worse, irritating his skin, and the urge to rip off the kit spikes up.
Blindingly bright against the lights, glowing amid the dark, sheer nylon and some other material, the contrast between the alabaster cloths against his bronze-like skin is striking. The way it shines back at him in the mirror makes him blink rapidly, having to adjust his sight to handle the glare. There’s a mismatch here with his dark eyes and hair with the blankness of the shirt.
A kit is supposed to become one with skin like an extra layer of protection. The color should become a source of guidance as one cross the pitch over and over again. They’ll make multiple, machine made copies of it and those on the outside will wear it. Maybe with time the sores will disappear and the jersey will sink into him.
During games, he actively searches for players willing to exchange jerseys. He doesn’t mind if they take it to only throw it away. That’s fine with him as long as they take it from his slightly shaking hands. He gives out his jersey to fans before and after games too claiming to his colleagues that seeing a young Madrid fan deserves that much.
He doesn’t tell them that he finds no comfort in the Blanco jersey that doesn’t seem to fit.
---
When he scores, he listens to the crowd scream everyone’s name except for his. He’s played for them for nearly three years now, and yet they give him nothing in return. There are little patches of those who say his name, but never with the same vigor and volume as the others. As if they are ashamed of him or not impressed by his skills, even those who say his name don’t sound as if they appreciate him.
He almost hesitates to celebrate each time, not out of anger, but out of a sense of loneliness. The pitch is large, the fans are many, and players from each side are unfamiliar to him. Eyes ever judging watch him, and he almost wishes he hadn’t scored. The people of Madrid are screaming, but all he hears is the silence in his heart.
Goals should make him feel something, make him feel fresh, emboldened to go for more. But as the seconds wind down in his mind, that familiar feeling of delight isn’t there. He quickly searches for what’s missing, sees the crowd looking down at him with unreadable faces, and he thinks for a moment to run away.
He eventually jumps and yells, covering up the hesitation, sometimes pumping his fists into the air, as his teammates surround him in celebration. They give him congratulatory air kisses and hugs, and say, “Let’s go!” to him. Grateful to be covered, he allows the energy of his fellows’ pound into him as if that could restart his body, which has been flat lining. He may not have the drive, but he can borrow it from others.
He lets the lingering feeling of not belonging be pushed aside.
---
The capitol, for its part, is a pretty city. Plenty of places to visit like concert venues, and museums. It’s different from Gijon, it has just as much history, but the politics seem to have seeped into each artifact. He hasn’t much of a care to learn anymore than he already does. He knows the basics like where the stadium is, where the traditional bar is to have a drink, and what certain city isn’t particular liked.
Sometimes he compares things here and from his childhood city. Without rhyme or reason, he sees the buildings here to be dirtier here than home. Whereas the sun shines and the wisps of sea air is inhaled over there, he finds that skies are greyer in the capitol, and that the sun is dimmer here too. The way the people speak Castilian is different here, far too reserved to his liking. Even the siestas have something off about them, he takes them as he normally would at home, but when he wakes up he doesn’t feel rejuvenated.
He brings home food from the nearby market and cooks dishes his mother likes to make. Sometimes late after a game he takes out some wine and drinks a glass as he watches other league games. There isn’t much inside besides the tv, the small desk, a one seat couch, and a twin bed. He hasn’t bought much to fill it in. The apartment he rents doesn’t need anything extra. It has done its purpose of providing him with a place to sleep and a place to get clean for the past two years.
The body he has doesn’t remember how to get from one place or another. He walks down streets and alleys, unsure if he’s been there before, and always has to turn around. He doesn’t allow himself to get lost though, not willing to explore the parts of the city unknown to tourists and outsiders like him. Even if he decides to at some point, he knows the directions won’t stick.
He is just a footnote to the streets of Madrid anyway.
---
Music blares out inside the nightclub, some pop-funk mix is playing as his teammates dance with each other, and with strangers. They’re dancing sexily with each other, with any man or woman that go up with them, and they're being a bit raunchy. Hands are grasping hips, eyes roaming each other’s bodies, and mouths smiling with intent for something more.
Sitting in the private box, on a booth, he watches his teammates’ antics while drinking a particularly weak brand of rum. Keeping track with how many drinks that are required from him, the alcohol has yet to take its hold. He has been successful in waving his teammates away whenever they come to him for a dance. The beat, on any other night, maybe far from here, would entice him to dance.
Several people come up to him with glazed over eyes and wide smiles trying to get him to dance. There’s a teammate he suspects has feelings that can’t be assigned to friendship for him. There’s a woman with brown hair and blue eyes that twists her hair as she strokes his hands. There’s a man in a red button up that pours him another drink, and continually grazes a hand on his leg. None of them seem interesting, though they are attractive, so he brushes them off with an easy smile and a dismissing tone.
He has seen many people take up residence in a new city, energized by a multi-year contract find women of the city they play in as wives. Others through more discreet channels end up finding partners. Being gay in Spain has its challenges with that it’s not legal to marry nor are there any laws against discrimination. Love for his heterosexual teammates and fellow players are easy, and for the others, love takes a lot more courage.
Since his preferences could be for either gender, he knows he could fall into either side of the line. The idea one day settling down will never be thrown away. He even thinks maybe he’ll find a nice Austrian, joining with that person as one, reveling in a shared culture. Nothing has stuck yet, though he has tried in Gijon, and other areas. He goes on the occasional date or two, even takes the random one night stand.
His blood doesn’t quicken with anyone here though.
---
On the training ground, with the doors closed to the outside, and no media watching, he’s able to let go of some of his restraint. All there should be is the way the ball feels at his feet. White happens to not be on him and in its place are black shorts and a blue shirt. He runs back and forth on the small pitch, ever watchful of those around him as the curious sprinkles of rain come down on him.
The coach has put him out of position once again. He is a left back who should not only defend, but fly up the flank to give support to the left wing forward. Adapting to a different playing position is easy unlike his adaption to the culture of his team. He wears the same cleats, has the same clothes, and what he needs to do is the same. He has to make sure the ball doesn’t get into his net and that it goes into the other team’s net.
A counterattack is about to start from the goalkeeper onward. He sees the keeper’s foot press the ball forward to the center back. Preparing himself, he jogs to the middle of the field and waits. The center back kicks the ball just ahead of him and he races back to try to catch up with the opposing striker. Not one to be contended with wherever he’s put, being a type of guy that goes just a step behind being all-out in preparation, he catches up to the forward and delivers a rather near-dangerous slide tackle.
His teammate, Emilio Butragueno, isn’t too happy, and the Madrid born man quickly gets up to his feet, yelling, “Watch out!” He brushes a bit of the grass from his legs, clearly annoyed. “This is practice you don’t need to put in that much force.”
The words don’t register in his mind though so he stands up taller and glares. Kicking the ball back toward the coaching staff, he puffs his chests out and steps forward. He sees the opposing man’s light skin, knows how easy it is for El Buitre to wear the jersey, how natural it is be a Merengue. There’s a blatant strength of loyalty to the club in front of him, and he’s suddenly enraged.
“What’s your problem?” he yells back, stepping forward with each word. He comes toe to toe with Butragueno, and uses his height advantage to look down menacingly at him. “I’m here to win,” he find himself saying heatedly. He brings up his hands and pushes El Buitre’s chest. “Maybe if you came to win, you wouldn’t have been tackled!”
It all happens so quickly. Moments after his words pass and they are in a scuffle. He throws out an insult he learned from his father and receives a punch to the face. The instant reaction isn’t to pull back and check his bruise, but rather, he ends up throwing out his own fist straight into the other man’s eye.
They go at it, exchanging punches, some landing and others miss. He isn’t thinking of too much, just of how the white in the eyes of Butragueno are so alike the jersey. There’s no pain when he gets hit. His mind wanders to a better white dressed with red, and his anger grows. Bowing his head down, he rushes forward, knocking his opponent down.
Strong hands grab him by the shoulder and waist just after his hands find their way to Butragueno’s throat. He has no intention of squeezing despite how heated he feels. However, he’s ready to lay one more punch to the eyes so they could swell up and he wouldn’t have to see the white space surrounding them. He doesn’t think about how much the color white affects him. Like an overpowering instinct, whenever he sees it he feels like a wretch, criticizes his growing apathy toward his five-year situation, and the response to fight or flight hammers at him.
They’re pulling him away, back toward the locker room, as he shouts back, “You are the problem.” He knows that he isn’t just talking about his teammate. “You’re the problem.” He tries to shake off the men pulling him to no avail. They are trying to calm him down, mentioning that the tackle didn’t look so bad, that the Vulture had a bad morning that everything will be okay.
What they don’t understand is that the real problem is coming from him. Football isn’t supposed to feel like a chore, isn’t supposed to feel like some monotonous routine. The ball at his feet should be an escape, a drug even, not what it has been for some time, a cage and lying object.
He dejectedly realizes that he finds no joy with the sport.
---
A brisk October evening, the breeze brings a little chill, and the night sky isn’t filled with as many stars as home is. His first ever El Clasico as a player has yet to begin. He sits on the substitutes bench, fumbling with his warm-up jersey, and wonders how many minutes he’ll get to play. He looks at the paper on this lap, read the names of his teammates and the names of the Barcelona players, looking up to put a face with the name.
Some people have told him that they felt chills when their anthem plays. He struggles with learning the words to this one only knowing that the city’s name is in it. He’s supposed to let the rhythm envelop him, and to let it galvanize him to work hard to defend the crest, but all he gets from it is a feeling of regret. He has kissed the crest before, but it burns his lips and makes his stomach turn.
He sees his teammates mouth out the lyrics as the crowd sing while holding out squares out to create the club’s flag. The passion of the fans is strong, and they hold their team to a high standard especially when up against their eternal rivals. He starts tapping his foot, tension building in his thighs, and he thinks that if tune doesn’t stop he’ll explode from how it screeches into his ears.
The game goes on, the ball probably swiftly going back and forth on the grass, he can’t really say because he zones out. He is looking at what is in front of him, but doesn't see what is actually there.
There is him playing football in his neighborhood with his father chasing him down, both of them laughing as he shoots the ball into the makeshift net. He hears the waves crash against the beach, and the sound of dolphins jumping up through the water and back into it.
A huge groan brings him out of reminiscing, what follows is a loud release of noise coming from the upper stands, he blinks twice and as his vision clears he sees a group of men dressed in blue and red huddled together. Arms about one another, as their fans sing, they celebrate as one, a great big hug, pumping fists and happy smiles.
Curses rain down from the rest of the stadium, hands waving and middle fingers pointing, he sees his teammates, and half looking downtrodden while the other half look pissed. The mister goes down into his seat, shaking his head while those sitting next to him slap down at the chairs as they angrily mutter to themselves.
The games ends at a tie, white flags are waving in protest to the score, and he rubs his arms to gather warmth despite having played for around twenty minutes. He accepts the comradely slaps to his butt and ruffling of his hair from his teammates as he stands near the center of the pitch. He nods absentmindedly when they say something to him, whether to his face or when they whisper it to his ears.
He has no liking for losses and draws, but it is still early in the campaign so losing two points shouldn’t be too bad. The feeling of slight discouragement he sees on the others faces aren’t mirrored by his own. This is what it has come to, not feeling much at a bad result, and what could be worse to those around him, he feels no bad blood for Barcelona.
How could he when he hardly feels anything for Madrid?
Long strides begin to take him to where most of the Barca players are. He’s already analyzing which player would accept a jersey from him. His back is itchy, sweat that rolls down him makes it worse, and the only bit of excitement he’s had all day is the possibility of the blank clothing being stripped from him.
Before getting there, he bumps shoulders against someone with the bright blue shorts and a jersey of red and blue that almost looks purple. He turns around to apologize, stopping his hands from pulling at his jersey in an effort to rid himself from it, and the words don’t come out from his mouth when he sees who is before him.
Reviewing the little files in his mind as fast as he can, he finds the name of the man in front of him. The talented midfielder, Catalan born, Josep Guardiola with his young face, thick eyebrows, dimpled chin, and dark hair is here in front of him giving him a small, friendly half-smile. The man is standing tall, heart pounding so hard that it is easy to see it through his shirt, and the hairs on his legs and arms are bit matted down by sweat.
He feels stricken by the way the man is looking at him as if he could see everything that he hides away from everyone especially the city of Madrid. The brown in Guardiola’s eyes are so deep, a fine mix between chocolate and rosewood, that he feels they hold some otherworldly knowledge yet to be figured out by man. The blaugrana jersey doesn’t repel away from the man’s skin rather it looks like it was meant to be there, and he feels a bit of envy at how natural the other man is inside that kit.
It makes sense to see why the other feels at home in blaugrana. He isn’t without knowledge himself and he did his homework. Before him was a man raised in Barcelona, bred at their academy to live their culture. This is a bit different though for he’s seen others that went through academies to reach the first team, and they have never looked at home in a jersey like Guardiola is.
He remembers himself in red and white, eagerly taking in what was before him. His heroes, men of Austuria, filled with bravery and desire to fight, to show their strength to those who saw them as weak. He can feel the way the stadium quaked at the footwork of their players. That dream to be like them entered his heart in that moment. He would be a warrior too, a warrior for Gijon.
But you can’t always stay at your birthplace. Life hands out challenges, ones that the familiar home can’t overcome, so in his eagerness to play and to see new things, he takes the contract and signs it. He was so sure he had made the right choice then. Five years is a long time to be with a city in football years, and he had been optimistic that his would be good.
Standing here, looking at the enigmatic eyes of the Catalan, suddenly admiring the way the other man looked, his heart starts beating faster than it has ever beat before. How remarkable it is to see how if he looked long enough he couldn’t distinguish what was skin and what was the kit. The blue and red blend in seamlessly with Guardiola’s skin. A feeling of longing crashes into his chest at the sight and he feels like he’s losing his ability to breathe.
An almost deafening sound smashes into his ears, a familiar one at that, popular among many too, and it repeats itself in his mind. He feels the warmth in his cheeks as the lyrics speeds through his blood. His heart continues its rapid pulse, like a drum in a marching band or like a drum in a rock song. He sees flickers of color in the corner of his eyes, something royal purple or sun like and it makes him want to tremble.
“Good game, I guess,” Guardiola says, extending his arm. Something comes up in the midfielder’s eyes, far too quick to be read, but it is able to send something down his spine, something he hasn’t felt since he wore Gijon’s jersey. “We both managed to salvage a point.”
The man’s hand grasps his elbow, fingers lying gently on his skin, and he feels his muscles tense when the fingers squeeze lightly. He shifts his feet though he doesn’t move away at the tingling sensation he feels on his arm. Another strange something flashes through Guardiola’s eyes, but it disappears just as fast as it came to be replaced by friendliness.
The loud pounding in his heart starts to go along with the song that had come into his mind without warning and with a lot of power. In trying not to stare amazingly at the hand that’s on his elbow, the name of the song is finally found. It was El Cant del Barca. He never gave that song much thought before but now it’s all he can hear.
“I’ll see you at Camp Nou.”
Before he can come up with a way to respond, the feeling of the other man’s fingertips on his skin is gone. He watches this in slow motion as Guardiola pulls his hands away, gives him another half smile, eyes still so deep and alluring, and turns from him. He opens his mouth and from the inside begs himself to say something, anything to get the other man to face him.
Nothing comes out though so he’s forced to watch Guardiola, like slow motion in his head, walk away back to his fellow blaugrana men, and into the tunnel. He touches his elbow, traces the spot where the hand was, and instantly misses the heat the fingers gave him. He feels cold and emptier than before as if those hands took a part of him.
The hymn of Barcelona still plays in his head, quieter than last time, but that didn’t matter for it is better than the silence that previously occupied his soul.
He has never wanted to burn the white away from his body more than he does now.
