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The sun is shining on the Spanish sky, on a lazy July afternoon and Iker is sitting on the porch, head resting against the armchair.There’s a smile lying softly on his lips as he watches Martín and Sara play on the pool, the 4 year old giggling as he swims clumsily towards his mother.
It brings him back to 2014, to lazy July afternoons spent in a mist of smiles and sangrias, to sweet tasting memories of titles and new starts. It takes him to when Martín was no more than months old, and Iker held him close to his body when near the pool. It's like no more than 365 days have passed, and he's 34 again, three years away from 37.
Realization doesn’t come with a bang. Realization doesn’t hit him suddenly, doesn’t come in on a shining light bulb on the top of his head, as he screams Eureka!. Realization comes slow, realization comes painfully.
He’s smiling, until he isn’t, until his heart starts to ache and his stomach churns and he might be sick, he’ll probably be sick.
He realizes that now, not in 2012, not in the first half of 2013, his time is up. His time is truly, entirely up. He has used up everything inside of him, given his all for Real Madrid, and now it’s time to let go. To pass the duty, the weight, the honor of being captain to someone else. It’s time, and he knows it.
Sara looks at him, wide eyes and brows furrowed, lips parted and something he can't quite pinpoint in her tone when she asks "Iker, are you alright?"
The answer gets stuck in the back of his throat, a weak Yeah, I'm great that heavies on his tongue. Instead, he mutters a "I just realized something", and knows that she will understand. She always does.
Iker calls Sergio at night, and for the longest time none of them say anything. Iker breathes on the phone and it’s like Sergio fucking knows. It shouldn’t be so fucking hard to say I’m retiring next season, but the words don’t come out of his lips. They get stuck in his throat and all he can do is fucking breathe.
“It’s time.” It’s all he manages to say.
It’s all he needs to say.
Iker retires in 2019.
Iker retires with 20 years of Real Madrid weighting on his back, half of it with a band around his arm. He retires with his blood running white and his heart carved into the club’s crest, scarred and glued back into pieces more times than he cares to admit.
(It’s not a perfect season, but it is enough.
They don’t win La Liga. They don’t finish it in first, they finish it with three points of difference weighting on their backs. It feels bitter, but it’s okay. It’s okay.
They don’t win Copa del Rey either. They go through to the semifinals, and Atlético beats them, 2-1. It’s okay.
They win the Champions League, and it feels right. It feels right to lift a 12th trophy, it feels right to sing Campeones! Campeones! yet another time, and he refuses to acknowledge the small voice in the back of his mind that says the last time.
And on the last game, a 2-0 victory against Valencia for La Liga, his last fucking clean sheet he wraps the band around Sergio’s arm and kisses it like it’s something precious. He kisses Sergio later, and it’s wet and tastes like salt and goodbye. It tastes like the end and Iker wishes for it to go away.)
*
Marcelo is many things.
Marcelo talks with a smile on his lips and gesticulates far too much, Marcelo dances discoordenatedly and mocks everyone else who does it too. Marcelo claps his hands when he laughs and tilts his head upwards, until everyone else is contagiated by the giggles that escape his mouth. He is the one to suggest a dance off, the one to say the first joke when the silence stretches for too long. Marcelo forces them to watch bad movies, and tells them he loves them if he drinks too much.
Marcelo is Brazil, Rio de Janeiro and Real Madrid wrapped inside a body, with heavy accented spanish and a heart that could save the fucking world.
Still, it comes as a surprise when he knocks on Iker’s door, Cristiano by his side and a smile plastered on their lips. Cristiano’s lifting a six pack as Marcelo smiles proudly, pointing at some comedy movie he rented.
Iker shakes his head as he opens up space for them, a hint of a smile lying softly on his face.
(It only takes 10 minutes until the movie is forgotten, replaced by the sound of their voices and they talk and laugh and act as if nothing has changed. It is like they are still in 2011, saying everything and nothing at all, getting drunk and giggling at bad jokes in terrible movies.
It’s like nothing has changed, even though everything has.)
*
The season starts with a 3-0 win. The season starts with a clean sheet, two goals by James Rodriguez and one by Isco, and a brilliant assist by Marcelo. The season starts and they are on command, they are on track, they are Real fucking Madrid.
The season starts on top and it doesn’t take long until it all comes crashing down.
*
It’s only been three games, they tell themselves, and ignore the heaviness of the atmosphere inside the locker rooms, and the small but certain furrow of Sergio’s brow, as he presses his lips together and just sighs.
It’s only been three games and they have lost three games in a row before, but never like this. Never without Iker.
It’s only been three games but--
*
It’s not supposed to be going like this.
They’re not supposed to be tieing, not at home, not when the weight on their shoulders grows with every second, the shadow of three wins in ten games haunting their every move. It’s not supposed be going like this, not when the clock is ticking and the crowd in Santiago Bernabéu sings and screams from the top of their lungs.
It’s not supposed to be going like this, and Sergio is not supposed to make a penalty and get a red card, but it is and he does.
He sees the bright red before he curls his hands around Neymar’s shoulders, sees it before he pushes the boy to the ground. He sees it as he closes his eyes and lays on the ground, cursing his very existence, cursing the armband, cursing the weight that only grows and grows and grows.
Sergio doesn’t bother complaining. He walks towards Marcelo and wraps the band around his arm as boos and curses pierce through his ears.
There’s nothing that Keylor Navas can possibly do to stop the ball from entering. Sergio sinks on his seat.
The worst part isn’t losing. The worst part isn’t the score ending up 1-2, isn’t the heavy silence that filled the atmosphere in Santiago Bernabéu. The worst part is trying everything and nothing working.
They kicked the ball, they passed the ball, they screamed and they cried, and they even scored but it was offside and-- it’s not fair. Not on them, not on their supporters, not on Iker who watches the game from the secured bleacher. It’s just not fucking fair.
Sergio closes his eyes and shields himself from the criticism that he knows is coming, that has been coming for sometime. He prays for a quick and easy solution, for something to take the weight out of his back, for something to happen, for a miracle to save them from this pit that he has put them on.
He prays for Iker to return.
(And Iker, who watches the game from the cabin, whose lips press together so tightly they become one, who rubs his hands on his eyes and sighs because it’s hard to watch, even harder to believe.)
*
James has never been known for keeping his emotions well hidden. He wears his heart on his sleeve, his troubles drawn on his face for anyone to see, for anyone to try and understand.
James Rodriguez has never been known for keeping his emotions well hidden, but he has never cared, either. Show the world who you are, his mother told him in a soft whisper, and he took it to heart. There was no point on hiding, there was no point on covering up, people will talk anyway.
When James knocks on Iker’s door, no more than two hours after El Clásico, he’s, well, surprised. James has red, puffy, watery eyes, and his lips are trembling. Iker hates that sight, finding himself not used to it despite the years and years and years of seeing it on locker rooms, be it a consequence of happiness or distress.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.” He says before Iker has a chance to think. James says and his words are quick, and rushed, and crash into one another.
Iker opens up his mouth, and blinks, furrowing his brows and tilting his head ever so slightly. It’s not his area of expertise, you see, to deal with colleagues (but, really, friends) who come to him for guidance.
(Not outside the Bernabéu, at least. Not while there isno band wrapped around his arm, not when he isn’t the Capitán, their strength, their soil.
Not ever since he retired.)
Iker doesn’t say a word, but motionsJames to come in with his head, every move somewhat hesitant, carefully planned and thought out.
“Are we done?” James’ voice is low when Iker shuts the door, and it takes him twenty seconds to actually figure out what he said.
It brings a laughter to Iker’s lips as he raises his brows. “Who? You and me?” He laughs again, taking one uncertain step towards James and shaking his head. “Just because I am no longer playing for Real Madrid it doesn’t mean I’m not your friend, James. You can count on me.”
There’s something on James’ eyes that Iker doesn’t recognize, a fading spark as he flashes a quick smile at Iker. “I know we’re okay. I meant us, Real Madrid. I don’t---” he takes in a sharp breath, closing his eyes before continuing “I know we’re not done. I just feel-- We’re a team, but we’re not us. We’re a team but we’re not Real Madrid.”
James presses his lips together, shaking his head from one side to the other as his eyes water. “I’m not giving up on the team, I just-- I didn’t know what else to do.”
All that Iker does, for a couple of seconds, is stare. He presses his lips together and simply stares, brows furrowing together as he searches for words to say. There are a thousands things that need to be spoken, but no words to give them their justice. Iker closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath.
“There are somethings that are quite easy to forget when you play for Real Madrid.” Iker starts, voice calm, low. “I know that for a fact. It’s easy to forget what loss tastes like, once you have rows upon rows of victories. Real Madrid is victory, Real Madrid is loss. Real Madrid is a draw, and a goal, and a foul. Real Madrid isn’t---You’re not done. You’ll never be done. Have faith.”
*
People seem to think that they know Cristiano Ronaldo. Cristiano Ronaldo, who wants to beat his own best so much that he can’t sit still. Cristiano, who is one of the greatest players of all times.
Here’s something new for their dossiers: Cristiano Ronaldo didn’t set himself with the legends that he as a kid looked up to (at some point, in some moment, before his intention swapped to become better than himself, because that was the present, and he was never one to look at the past) simply for kicking a ball or dribbling or scoring 784 goals on his years of career. Cristiano Ronaldo paint his name beside legends with his blood and sweat, and carved it the way he wanted because he was too good, too honest, too vibrant. He painted it in abstract and left himself up to interpretation.
Cristiano Ronaldo protected himself on a thick armor of pushing himself too hard, and knowing what he was capable of. Cristiano shielded himself from criticism and Iker envied him for it.
(Iker is the one that phones him, on a lazy Friday afternoon, as he waits for Sara to come home from work and Martín to return from school.
Iker calls him and he doesn’t know what he expects, but he calls him anyway. He calls him and there’s something reassuring in the way that his voice sound, the unshaken sound of his words. It makes Iker let go of a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
“This too shall pass.” Cristiano says before he hangs up, and Iker takes his word for it.)
*
Sergio and Iker talk about almost everything.
They talk about Sara, and Pilar, and Martín and Sergio. They talk about restaurants and wine and different seasonings. They talk about the weather and the King and the economy. They talk about almost everything.
They don’t talk about football.
They don’t dare to mention Real Madrid, changing the subject far too quickly whenever they approach a designated danger area. They don’t talk about Real Madrid, or the games, or the way that Sergio’s brows seem to furrow deeper and deeper, and his smile seems to be rarer and rarer.
(Iker tried two times, but he quickly learned not to.
He tried two times, and in both Sergio pressed his lips together and simply stated “It’s getting late, isn’t it?” before getting up and leaving, even though everyone knows he always stays the night.)
They don’t talk about football, until one freezing night in January, when Sergio is staring for far too long at the ground and drumming his fingers on the glass of wine. His lips are pressed together and his brows knitted.
There’s an uncomfortable silence stretching, the kind that is a result of wanting to say something and not being able to put into words. The one that has you opening up your mouth and closing it more times than not, closing your eyes and just trying to think.
Sergio takes in a sharp breath before saying “I can’t do this without you” and it sounds tired, weary, exhausted. It makes Iker widen his eyes and move closer to Sergio.
“Sese, what--- what are you talking about?” Iker asks, even though he knows the answer. The answer is written on his eyes with harsh patterns.
“I can’t-- I can’t command Real Madrid without you. I was never meant to, I was never---” Sergio closes his eyes and puts the glass on the table, only to run his hands through his hair and not even glance at Iker’s direction. There’s shame burning up his throat and he can’t even breathe. “I was never supposed to be there longer than you. I was meant to leave, and you to retire, and Marcelo to become the captain. I-”.
Iker wants to tell him that he’s a fucking idiot, but Sergio probably knows that. Instead, closes his eyes for a split second, before hold Sergio’s hand in his and forcing him to look at him.
“Sergio.” Iker takes a deep breath before continuing, searching for the exact words “I’ve said this before, I’ve said this a thousand fucking times before, you are a leader. You are Real Madrid. You have given your everything for this team time and time and time again--Sergio. I could not leave Real Madrid with anyone other than you.”
“We haven’t won in eight matches, Iker. Eight.” Sergio hisses, taking his hands of abruptly. “We lost half and tied the rest of them, it’s not---”
“Everyone has bad seasons. They will call you names and curse you and you will endure, because I know, and everyone else knows of what you are capable of. We go forward, always. A bad beginning doesn’t define a season, Nene. Never has, never will.”
I’m sorry, Sergio whispers before taking Iker’s hand again, a small, weak whisper that has Iker pulling him closer to his body, before replying with a You have nothing to be sorry about.
*
They beat Manchester United three for the Champions League, Sergio smiles like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
*
It’s past ten when the doorbell rings.
The doorbell rings and Iker is surprised when he opens the door to see Toni, standing awkwardly with his hands shoved inside his pockets and his cheeks red from the heat. It’s been five years, and yet it seems that it has been no more than five months when it comes to Toni’s resistance for the heat.
“Am I here too early?” Toni asks, his heavy accent flowing from his lips as the words come out hesitantly.
“I have the feeling I don’t want to know what you are early for.” Is all that Iker replies before he lets him in.
He’s right. (Sort of).
At 11pm Iker’s house is filled with Real Madrid players, and there’s a sly smile on Sara’s lips as she talks animatedly to Cristiano and Marcelo and looks at Iker’s direction all the fucking time and he knows they are talking about him.
Iker smiles at them.
It’s 4am and Iker and Sergio are wrapped around each other, Marcelo is snoring obnoxiously with his face pressed up against the carpet, and Toni and James are leaving, hands plastered together as they close the door behind them.
“Sara, Sara, Sara,” Sergio starts as soon as he sees the woman, giggling loudly as she comes closer. “I’m going to crash here, okay?”
“Well, do I get a choice?” There’s a sweetness in her tone as she speaks, hands playing with Iker’s hair as she looks at Sergio.
“Not really, no.” Sergio replies before bursting into laughter again.
“Well, then, would you like to spend the night, Sergio?” Sara asks, and shakes her head from one side to the other when she hears if you insist coming out of Sergio’s lips. There’s a sweet smile on her lips as she moves to kiss Iker’s temple. “Goodnight, honey.”
She’s out of the living room with a blink of an eye, and Sergio presses his lips on Iker’s before getting up, his hands entwined with Iker’s as he pulls him to his feet.
The last thing they hear before closing the guest room’s door is Sara’s voice.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, boys."