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"I'm still here," Xavi repeats, grabbing David's jaw to pull him closer, drinking in those caramel eyes he'd missed. "Joder, David, you can't just leave it all behind." The stripes on David's jersey were the wrong colour, red and white sticking behind his eyelids when he blinked.
David gripped Xavi's wrist and pulled his fingers away. "I can leave, Xavi. I can do what I want."
They stared at each other, each willing the other to understand. That David couldn't just leave; that he could--
That David could leave Barcelona, but he couldn't leave Xavi.
"I'm sorry," David told him, softly. For leaving you.
"I understand," Xavi answered. For the first time, he did. It was a luxury to do only what you wanted to. They did what they had to do, as David had done. He could make it harder for David, or he could swallow the pain, stomach it.
He wasn't sure he could, but that had never stopped him from trying.
"It'll be harder," David said. He sounded--pleading? "For us. I know it will, but if you still want to, I..."
David wasn't good with words. He was good with his face, though, his heart; Xavi could read him as easily as ever.
Of course he still wants to.
He wasn't sure it would work, but that would never stop them from trying.
And, on second thought, the red and white fit David pretty well.