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acchikocchiNext part of spyfic soon, I promise, it's been almost done for like a week now (argh). In the meantime, here's something that's actually finished, whoa. Possible subtitle: Cheap tricks in emotional manipulation, or, Angst means you're my favorite.
I don't usually post notes with my fic, but the first two parts won't make much sense unless you're familiar with the events of the 2002 transfer window, in which Real Madrid attempted to sell Morientes to Barcelona against his will as part of a three-way deal for Ronaldo the first. (more.) Everything else should be relatively straightforward.
five things that never happened to fernando morientes
fernando morientes/raúl gonzález, fernando morientes/david villa
2895 words
August, 2002
It doesn't go through.
Fernando wakes up a week before the end of the transfer window and suddenly everyone's saying the deal's not happening, Ronaldo wants to stay, Inter won't sell him, Perez doesn't want him -- a dozen different and not necessarily conflicting reasons. Whatever the reason is, Fernando doesn't think it has anything to do with their president, who looks coldly furious when Fernando catches a glimpse of him on TV, some reporter shoving a mike in his face for a soundbite.
There's no word from the club, but there hasn't been, officially, not all summer. Fernando's not going to relax until September first. In the meantime, there's the Supercup. On board, he sits next to Raúl and tries to not to fidget too much.
"It's going to be fine," Raúl says. He's staring fiercely at the seatback and his mouth is set. If will alone could do it, Raúl's would make it so.
Four days until the window closes. They have two days in Monaco to train. Fernando's agent doesn't call. Three days. Two days, and the night before the game. He's sitting in one of the lobbies with Raúl and Solari and Fernando Redondo, fiddling idly with a magazine without reading it, when someone clears their throat.
It's Valdano.
"Morientes," he says, "a word, please."
For a moment Fernando is frozen, ice-cold. All he can manage is a single, helpless glance at Raúl, who looks like he's been hit in the stomach. Belatedly, he makes himself move; gets up, puts down his magazine. He doesn't even fumble. As he follows Valdano away, he looks over his shoulder. Raúl's on his feet and striding purposefully in the direction of their captain.
Valdano leads him to a quiet little alcove, tucked away from the lobby. He doesn't sit down, so neither does Fernando. It's not going to be a long conversation. Fernando takes a breath and holds it.
"It's not going to happen," Valdano says without preamble. "For certain."
For a moment, Fernando hears the words but don't understand. Then it hits him, all in a rush. The breath he's holding escapes in a heavy exhalation; he doesn't even care what he looks like. For now, he only cares about one thing.
"I'm not going to lie to you," Valdano says. He says that often, and it's true, unless you count lies of omission. "The president wanted this deal very much. He's not... pleased. Be that as it may, what's done is done, and the manager will be counting you, I have no doubt."
Fernando's silent. He doesn't know what he should say: Sorry you didn't get who you wanted -- but he's not sorry, at all. Valdano studies his face. Valdano himself gives nothing away he doesn't want to; he never does. Fernando will probably never know his own feelings on the deal.
Valdano says abruptly, "This was badly handled. I admit that. I've been told you didn't want to leave." Fernando thinks he knows by whom. "However, if you've changed your mind, I imagine next -- "
"No," Fernando says, quickly, finding his voice at last, "no, I want, I want to stay, I." I want, I want.
"All right," Valdano says. "Then here's your chance. If you want to keep your place, you prove it." He gives Fernando a sharp nod and walks away, without so much as a glance backward.
Raúl and Hierro are waiting, twin statues of forbidding iron. It almost makes a laugh bubble up from Fernando's throat, one of giddy nervous relief. They wait for him to speak first.
"I," he says, and clears his throat. "I'm staying."
Raúl's face almost collapses in on itself with relief. A shot of something warm goes through Fernando's chest. He tells them what Valdano told him, and Raúl says, with confidence, that there won't be a problem then. That night, for the first time in weeks, Fernando slips into a deep, dreamless sleep.
He's in the starting lineup. Not even the familiar rituals of match preparation can calm him; every sense is ultra-sharp, like he's taken off a blindfold, or woken from a dream. He's staying, he's staying, he's staying. He barely hears del Bosque's pre-match talk before suddenly they're in the tunnel, and Hierro and Raúl and Michel are shouting encouragement. Hierro cuffs him hard on the shoulder on his way to the front of the line, then --
Raúl throws an insistent arm over Fernando's neck, tugging, bringing Fernando's head down. His mouth brushes Fernando's ear. "We're going to get this one. You and me."
He grips Fernando's hand and vanishes down the tunnel. Fernando closes his eyes and thanks his lucky stars.
Then he opens them again, and runs out onto the pitch.
November, 2002
The Clásico is the worst night of his life.
No one scores: not Raúl, not Figo. Certainly not Fernando; Michel shuts him down as effectively as a brick wall. Ronaldo doesn't even play.
It's not as bad as the Camp Nou, with Figo. There's a storm of whistles every time he touches the ball, and a steady stream of chants from the Ultra Sur, but no pigs' heads, very few signs. Maybe it's because they know he didn't want to go, or maybe it's because they just don't care as much in Madrid. Or maybe they just don't care as much about him. It doesn't matter. Fernando cares enough for all of them.
It ends like that, a scoreless draw. Everyone -- his teammates -- his former teammates -- comes over afterwards, to pat him on the cheek or put an arm around his shoulder.
"Good game," Raúl says, just before his arms go around Fernando. There's something hurt in his eyes.
Fernando closes his eyes and clutches at Raúl more tightly than he should, inhaling deep. "No, it wasn't," he chokes into Raúl's shoulder, trying to disguise it with a laugh. Raúl's hand tightens in his hair, briefly.
That's what they run on all the clip shows, of course. Fernando doesn't watch any of them.
It takes time to adjust, that's what they all say. They're not doing great yet, and he's still not scoring as much as he'd like, but it would be unfair to expect everything to click immediately, like it did the last time. He's starting to work out a pretty good link with Riquelme, and even though he gets the feeling Kluivert's not thrilled to have him there, the dressing room is fine: he knows Mendieta and Puyol and Luis Enrique, and likes them all.
It could be worse. It could be so much worse.
In the dressing room, he strokes one finger along the silky red and blue stripes, and doesn't think of anything else.
January, 2005
Fifty-four minutes into his Liverpool debut, Fernando scores.
He's already feeling the burn in his legs and his lungs when they line up for the corner. Some of the things they say about the English league are true. They're taller here, too, or at least they are at United -- but so is he. Silvestre's trying to mark Fernando; Fernando knows him from Champions' Leagues and internationals, knows how he moves. At the last minute, he shakes him off, as the ball comes swinging in from Gerrard's high corner, and Fernando jumps --
It slams over Carroll into the back of the net, as sweet as anything at the Bernabéu. The Kop goes berserk. Fernando slides across the grass on his knees until Gerrard knocks him over and nearly strangles him, hanging off his neck, followed by Baros and Alonso and what feels like half the rest of the team. Fernando gets to his feet unable to keep the earsplitting grin from his face. It's freezing and wet and he's sore all over and it feels better than anything in months.
Ten minutes later Gerrard and Alonso combine for the winner. Fernando comes off in the 75th minute, exhausted but satisfied bone-deep, to a roar of applause. Anfield is a howling din by now, like nothing he's ever heard. The referee calls time, and that's it: Fernando's debut record remains unbroken.
It's a minute before he realizes what they're chanting. "Nando, Nando Mo-ri-en-tes..."
Everyone wants to congratulate him. They clap him on the back, pull his head down to ruffle his hair. Alonso says something in his ear about sharing his luck. He has no idea what anyone else is saying to him, so he just grins indiscriminately at them all because it feels so good to be on the field again, to score.
He does it again the next week, and the week after that. People start to stop him in the street. He's not very inconspicuous, after all, particularly because he still hasn't picked up that much English, but he tries, laughing at himself, and no one seems to care. They beat Newcastle. They beat Everton. They beat Tottenham. Fernando scores the winning goal, for the first time.
They finish third in the table, one point ahead of United. They're miles behind Chelsea and Arsenal, still -- but that's okay, because next year's going to be different. Everyone at Anfield thinks so, and he -- "Fernando, Fernando, he's the king of Spain," -- is the reason they do. He's watching from the sidelines in Istanbul, but it's his team by then. The next season, he's going to be there on the field.
He won't return to Madrid until they go there for the round of sixteen four years later. Raúl's almost the only left by then -- Raúl and Guti and Michel and Iker Casillas. (They're still friends, of course -- but he doesn't see Raúl as often, now.) Real go out like a feather. Fernando feels a strange sense of déjà vu when he scores, and the ultras applaud -- but it's washed away by the roar of the traveling Kop, who are louder. He belongs to them now.
Years later, they ask him if he ever in his wildest dreams imagined himself so successful, so accepted, so at home in this cold, grey city stained red. He says, honestly, that he can't imagine it happening any other way.
September, 2006
Valencia makes a strong bid. But the thought of returning to Spain, tail between his legs -- of returning to Spain and playing at the Bernabéu as an outsider, over and over and over again -- is more than Fernando's pride can take. He tells his agent to look harder, and when August begins he's training in maroon and gold, in the shadow of the Coliseum.
(There's a twinge, when he sees Christian again for the first time: a shower of confetti and silver glinting in the light, the roar of the Bernabéu, the weight of an arm around his neck.)
After Liverpool, it's almost as much to his surprise as anyone else's that he immediately does well -- good -- very good, even. He racks up goals in the first weeks of the season and earns himself a call up back to the national team, in the wake of their World Cup crash.
That's where he meets David Villa again: Villa and his burning black eyes and his predatory aura of self-belief. It's not really surprising. Fernando's always been weak to those things.
He almost says something stupid, like, Did you know we were almost teammates? Instead he grins at Villa and asks him how it's going at Valencia, and it seems to work, because Villa sticks his hands in his pockets and almost smiles.
They combine for a beautiful goal, Villa off Fernando's backheel. For a minute, Fernando does think of what could have been -- but only for a minute.
Their clubs are in the same Champions' League group. Fernando hadn't been on the field for the first match, but he is when Valencia comes to Rome for the return leg in early December: the last match of the group stage. They play under an iron grey sky, and in the end Roma manage to pull out a goal for the win. They'll both advance.
In the post-match mingling, Villa cuts straight through to Fernando. They strip off their shirts and Fernando says, "Good game."
Villa shrugs. "I didn't score."
Fernando almost laughs, because there are some things that don't ever seem to change. "You remind me of someone I know," he says.
"Yeah?" Villa says. "That a good thing?"
"Yeah," Fernando answers, and ignores the sudden and unexpected tightening of his throat. "Really good." He pushes it back, smiling wide, and says, "See you in a couple rounds, maybe."
"Before that," Villa says, and something about the way he says it makes Fernando almost flush.
Something moves at the edge of his vision; he turns, but no one's there. When he looks back, Villa is already walking away. Then he looks over his shoulder, casually. When he sees Fernando watching, he smirks.
It's nearly midnight when Fernando's phone rings.
He goes.
Afterwards, Villa says, voice low and satisfied, "You should have come to Valencia."
Fernando's mouth smiles a little, though he doesn't feel it. "Yeah," he says. "Maybe."
He doesn't say, If I had, this would never have happened.
That's a mistake he's never going to make again.
July, 2010
He calls Raúl after he's made the decision. It turns out Raúl's made one, too.
"I'm staying," Raúl says. There's an immeasurable weariness buried deep in his voice. "One more season."
Fernando's quiet. What he thinks is, Is it worth it, will it be enough, will it ever be enough. He says none of it, because he already knows the answers. What he does say is, "What are you doing until then?"
"Vacation, for now." Raúl makes a sound that's not entirely a laugh. "I have the time."
"Come to Valencia," Fernando says, on impulse. "Get out of the city, bring your family."
Raúl hesitates a moment.
"Come on," Fernando repeats, and Raúl says, "All right."
It's a hot day. They eat off paper plates, sitting on the front steps, while the children race across the front lawn and through the house and back again, shrieking. Eventually, inevitably, they gravitate to the back, where there's a net at either end of the lawn. Fernando helps take everything inside, and catches Victoria's eye; she nods and tucks her arm through Mamen's and they stroll after the children.
Raúl's still sitting out on the front steps. Fernando fetches two long-necked bottles and carries them out between two fingers, condensation dripping on his palm. He hands one to Raúl and eases down beside him, leaning back with a small oof.
Raúl drains half the bottle, eyes closed. Before them, the sinking sun paints the sky a brilliant orange. A high-pitched child's laugh drifts up from the back lawn.
"I," Raúl says, and no more.
He doesn't need to explain himself, to Fernando. He never has.
"A year, huh," Fernando says lightly. "Then maybe I'll wait for you to come along before I get too carried away." He looks out over the lawn, mirroring Raúl. "You could come up here for a while, even. Or anywhere. You'll be able to go wherever you want, you know? We both will."
Raúl's shoulders are rigid. Fernando keeps talking, keeps his voice light, warm. "Think about it. We'll go on vacation, real vacation. And we'll go to matches, and cheer for whoever we want. Or, who knows, maybe just tennis instead."
"We'll do all those things we weren't allowed to under contract. We'll go skiing or rock climbing or sky diving. We'll take our kids out any time we want. We'll play football, and I'll beat you." Raúl's arm is trembling where it brushes his. "And maybe -- maybe, after a while, we'll go back there together, one more time."
He wraps an arm around Raúl's shoulders, the fit as familiar, as comfortable as it's been since they were teenagers.
"One more time," he says. "Just for the memories."
Raúl sags against him, just for a moment. His curls brush Fernando's cheek. Fernando turns his head just enough to press his lips to Raúl's forehead.
"Okay," Raúl says.
They stay like that for a long time, until long after the sun's gone down.
I don't usually post notes with my fic, but the first two parts won't make much sense unless you're familiar with the events of the 2002 transfer window, in which Real Madrid attempted to sell Morientes to Barcelona against his will as part of a three-way deal for Ronaldo the first. (more.) Everything else should be relatively straightforward.
five things that never happened to fernando morientes
fernando morientes/raúl gonzález, fernando morientes/david villa
2895 words
August, 2002
It doesn't go through.
Fernando wakes up a week before the end of the transfer window and suddenly everyone's saying the deal's not happening, Ronaldo wants to stay, Inter won't sell him, Perez doesn't want him -- a dozen different and not necessarily conflicting reasons. Whatever the reason is, Fernando doesn't think it has anything to do with their president, who looks coldly furious when Fernando catches a glimpse of him on TV, some reporter shoving a mike in his face for a soundbite.
There's no word from the club, but there hasn't been, officially, not all summer. Fernando's not going to relax until September first. In the meantime, there's the Supercup. On board, he sits next to Raúl and tries to not to fidget too much.
"It's going to be fine," Raúl says. He's staring fiercely at the seatback and his mouth is set. If will alone could do it, Raúl's would make it so.
Four days until the window closes. They have two days in Monaco to train. Fernando's agent doesn't call. Three days. Two days, and the night before the game. He's sitting in one of the lobbies with Raúl and Solari and Fernando Redondo, fiddling idly with a magazine without reading it, when someone clears their throat.
It's Valdano.
"Morientes," he says, "a word, please."
For a moment Fernando is frozen, ice-cold. All he can manage is a single, helpless glance at Raúl, who looks like he's been hit in the stomach. Belatedly, he makes himself move; gets up, puts down his magazine. He doesn't even fumble. As he follows Valdano away, he looks over his shoulder. Raúl's on his feet and striding purposefully in the direction of their captain.
Valdano leads him to a quiet little alcove, tucked away from the lobby. He doesn't sit down, so neither does Fernando. It's not going to be a long conversation. Fernando takes a breath and holds it.
"It's not going to happen," Valdano says without preamble. "For certain."
For a moment, Fernando hears the words but don't understand. Then it hits him, all in a rush. The breath he's holding escapes in a heavy exhalation; he doesn't even care what he looks like. For now, he only cares about one thing.
"I'm not going to lie to you," Valdano says. He says that often, and it's true, unless you count lies of omission. "The president wanted this deal very much. He's not... pleased. Be that as it may, what's done is done, and the manager will be counting you, I have no doubt."
Fernando's silent. He doesn't know what he should say: Sorry you didn't get who you wanted -- but he's not sorry, at all. Valdano studies his face. Valdano himself gives nothing away he doesn't want to; he never does. Fernando will probably never know his own feelings on the deal.
Valdano says abruptly, "This was badly handled. I admit that. I've been told you didn't want to leave." Fernando thinks he knows by whom. "However, if you've changed your mind, I imagine next -- "
"No," Fernando says, quickly, finding his voice at last, "no, I want, I want to stay, I." I want, I want.
"All right," Valdano says. "Then here's your chance. If you want to keep your place, you prove it." He gives Fernando a sharp nod and walks away, without so much as a glance backward.
Raúl and Hierro are waiting, twin statues of forbidding iron. It almost makes a laugh bubble up from Fernando's throat, one of giddy nervous relief. They wait for him to speak first.
"I," he says, and clears his throat. "I'm staying."
Raúl's face almost collapses in on itself with relief. A shot of something warm goes through Fernando's chest. He tells them what Valdano told him, and Raúl says, with confidence, that there won't be a problem then. That night, for the first time in weeks, Fernando slips into a deep, dreamless sleep.
He's in the starting lineup. Not even the familiar rituals of match preparation can calm him; every sense is ultra-sharp, like he's taken off a blindfold, or woken from a dream. He's staying, he's staying, he's staying. He barely hears del Bosque's pre-match talk before suddenly they're in the tunnel, and Hierro and Raúl and Michel are shouting encouragement. Hierro cuffs him hard on the shoulder on his way to the front of the line, then --
Raúl throws an insistent arm over Fernando's neck, tugging, bringing Fernando's head down. His mouth brushes Fernando's ear. "We're going to get this one. You and me."
He grips Fernando's hand and vanishes down the tunnel. Fernando closes his eyes and thanks his lucky stars.
Then he opens them again, and runs out onto the pitch.
November, 2002
The Clásico is the worst night of his life.
No one scores: not Raúl, not Figo. Certainly not Fernando; Michel shuts him down as effectively as a brick wall. Ronaldo doesn't even play.
It's not as bad as the Camp Nou, with Figo. There's a storm of whistles every time he touches the ball, and a steady stream of chants from the Ultra Sur, but no pigs' heads, very few signs. Maybe it's because they know he didn't want to go, or maybe it's because they just don't care as much in Madrid. Or maybe they just don't care as much about him. It doesn't matter. Fernando cares enough for all of them.
It ends like that, a scoreless draw. Everyone -- his teammates -- his former teammates -- comes over afterwards, to pat him on the cheek or put an arm around his shoulder.
"Good game," Raúl says, just before his arms go around Fernando. There's something hurt in his eyes.
Fernando closes his eyes and clutches at Raúl more tightly than he should, inhaling deep. "No, it wasn't," he chokes into Raúl's shoulder, trying to disguise it with a laugh. Raúl's hand tightens in his hair, briefly.
That's what they run on all the clip shows, of course. Fernando doesn't watch any of them.
It takes time to adjust, that's what they all say. They're not doing great yet, and he's still not scoring as much as he'd like, but it would be unfair to expect everything to click immediately, like it did the last time. He's starting to work out a pretty good link with Riquelme, and even though he gets the feeling Kluivert's not thrilled to have him there, the dressing room is fine: he knows Mendieta and Puyol and Luis Enrique, and likes them all.
It could be worse. It could be so much worse.
In the dressing room, he strokes one finger along the silky red and blue stripes, and doesn't think of anything else.
January, 2005
Fifty-four minutes into his Liverpool debut, Fernando scores.
He's already feeling the burn in his legs and his lungs when they line up for the corner. Some of the things they say about the English league are true. They're taller here, too, or at least they are at United -- but so is he. Silvestre's trying to mark Fernando; Fernando knows him from Champions' Leagues and internationals, knows how he moves. At the last minute, he shakes him off, as the ball comes swinging in from Gerrard's high corner, and Fernando jumps --
It slams over Carroll into the back of the net, as sweet as anything at the Bernabéu. The Kop goes berserk. Fernando slides across the grass on his knees until Gerrard knocks him over and nearly strangles him, hanging off his neck, followed by Baros and Alonso and what feels like half the rest of the team. Fernando gets to his feet unable to keep the earsplitting grin from his face. It's freezing and wet and he's sore all over and it feels better than anything in months.
Ten minutes later Gerrard and Alonso combine for the winner. Fernando comes off in the 75th minute, exhausted but satisfied bone-deep, to a roar of applause. Anfield is a howling din by now, like nothing he's ever heard. The referee calls time, and that's it: Fernando's debut record remains unbroken.
It's a minute before he realizes what they're chanting. "Nando, Nando Mo-ri-en-tes..."
Everyone wants to congratulate him. They clap him on the back, pull his head down to ruffle his hair. Alonso says something in his ear about sharing his luck. He has no idea what anyone else is saying to him, so he just grins indiscriminately at them all because it feels so good to be on the field again, to score.
He does it again the next week, and the week after that. People start to stop him in the street. He's not very inconspicuous, after all, particularly because he still hasn't picked up that much English, but he tries, laughing at himself, and no one seems to care. They beat Newcastle. They beat Everton. They beat Tottenham. Fernando scores the winning goal, for the first time.
They finish third in the table, one point ahead of United. They're miles behind Chelsea and Arsenal, still -- but that's okay, because next year's going to be different. Everyone at Anfield thinks so, and he -- "Fernando, Fernando, he's the king of Spain," -- is the reason they do. He's watching from the sidelines in Istanbul, but it's his team by then. The next season, he's going to be there on the field.
He won't return to Madrid until they go there for the round of sixteen four years later. Raúl's almost the only left by then -- Raúl and Guti and Michel and Iker Casillas. (They're still friends, of course -- but he doesn't see Raúl as often, now.) Real go out like a feather. Fernando feels a strange sense of déjà vu when he scores, and the ultras applaud -- but it's washed away by the roar of the traveling Kop, who are louder. He belongs to them now.
Years later, they ask him if he ever in his wildest dreams imagined himself so successful, so accepted, so at home in this cold, grey city stained red. He says, honestly, that he can't imagine it happening any other way.
September, 2006
Valencia makes a strong bid. But the thought of returning to Spain, tail between his legs -- of returning to Spain and playing at the Bernabéu as an outsider, over and over and over again -- is more than Fernando's pride can take. He tells his agent to look harder, and when August begins he's training in maroon and gold, in the shadow of the Coliseum.
(There's a twinge, when he sees Christian again for the first time: a shower of confetti and silver glinting in the light, the roar of the Bernabéu, the weight of an arm around his neck.)
After Liverpool, it's almost as much to his surprise as anyone else's that he immediately does well -- good -- very good, even. He racks up goals in the first weeks of the season and earns himself a call up back to the national team, in the wake of their World Cup crash.
That's where he meets David Villa again: Villa and his burning black eyes and his predatory aura of self-belief. It's not really surprising. Fernando's always been weak to those things.
He almost says something stupid, like, Did you know we were almost teammates? Instead he grins at Villa and asks him how it's going at Valencia, and it seems to work, because Villa sticks his hands in his pockets and almost smiles.
They combine for a beautiful goal, Villa off Fernando's backheel. For a minute, Fernando does think of what could have been -- but only for a minute.
Their clubs are in the same Champions' League group. Fernando hadn't been on the field for the first match, but he is when Valencia comes to Rome for the return leg in early December: the last match of the group stage. They play under an iron grey sky, and in the end Roma manage to pull out a goal for the win. They'll both advance.
In the post-match mingling, Villa cuts straight through to Fernando. They strip off their shirts and Fernando says, "Good game."
Villa shrugs. "I didn't score."
Fernando almost laughs, because there are some things that don't ever seem to change. "You remind me of someone I know," he says.
"Yeah?" Villa says. "That a good thing?"
"Yeah," Fernando answers, and ignores the sudden and unexpected tightening of his throat. "Really good." He pushes it back, smiling wide, and says, "See you in a couple rounds, maybe."
"Before that," Villa says, and something about the way he says it makes Fernando almost flush.
Something moves at the edge of his vision; he turns, but no one's there. When he looks back, Villa is already walking away. Then he looks over his shoulder, casually. When he sees Fernando watching, he smirks.
It's nearly midnight when Fernando's phone rings.
He goes.
Afterwards, Villa says, voice low and satisfied, "You should have come to Valencia."
Fernando's mouth smiles a little, though he doesn't feel it. "Yeah," he says. "Maybe."
He doesn't say, If I had, this would never have happened.
That's a mistake he's never going to make again.
July, 2010
He calls Raúl after he's made the decision. It turns out Raúl's made one, too.
"I'm staying," Raúl says. There's an immeasurable weariness buried deep in his voice. "One more season."
Fernando's quiet. What he thinks is, Is it worth it, will it be enough, will it ever be enough. He says none of it, because he already knows the answers. What he does say is, "What are you doing until then?"
"Vacation, for now." Raúl makes a sound that's not entirely a laugh. "I have the time."
"Come to Valencia," Fernando says, on impulse. "Get out of the city, bring your family."
Raúl hesitates a moment.
"Come on," Fernando repeats, and Raúl says, "All right."
It's a hot day. They eat off paper plates, sitting on the front steps, while the children race across the front lawn and through the house and back again, shrieking. Eventually, inevitably, they gravitate to the back, where there's a net at either end of the lawn. Fernando helps take everything inside, and catches Victoria's eye; she nods and tucks her arm through Mamen's and they stroll after the children.
Raúl's still sitting out on the front steps. Fernando fetches two long-necked bottles and carries them out between two fingers, condensation dripping on his palm. He hands one to Raúl and eases down beside him, leaning back with a small oof.
Raúl drains half the bottle, eyes closed. Before them, the sinking sun paints the sky a brilliant orange. A high-pitched child's laugh drifts up from the back lawn.
"I," Raúl says, and no more.
He doesn't need to explain himself, to Fernando. He never has.
"A year, huh," Fernando says lightly. "Then maybe I'll wait for you to come along before I get too carried away." He looks out over the lawn, mirroring Raúl. "You could come up here for a while, even. Or anywhere. You'll be able to go wherever you want, you know? We both will."
Raúl's shoulders are rigid. Fernando keeps talking, keeps his voice light, warm. "Think about it. We'll go on vacation, real vacation. And we'll go to matches, and cheer for whoever we want. Or, who knows, maybe just tennis instead."
"We'll do all those things we weren't allowed to under contract. We'll go skiing or rock climbing or sky diving. We'll take our kids out any time we want. We'll play football, and I'll beat you." Raúl's arm is trembling where it brushes his. "And maybe -- maybe, after a while, we'll go back there together, one more time."
He wraps an arm around Raúl's shoulders, the fit as familiar, as comfortable as it's been since they were teenagers.
"One more time," he says. "Just for the memories."
Raúl sags against him, just for a moment. His curls brush Fernando's cheek. Fernando turns his head just enough to press his lips to Raúl's forehead.
"Okay," Raúl says.
They stay like that for a long time, until long after the sun's gone down.
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Date: 2011-05-14 12:35 am (UTC)Raúl wore his friend's No9 jersey in his own as a gesture of support, and the two players, plus Fernando Hierro, argued openly and bitterly with Pérez and Valdano in the lobby of their Monte Carlo hotel late that night.
Perhaps the decline in
Real'sRaul's heart and soul can be traced to that night and the cavalier way in which a talented, loyal servant was treated.Morientes hurts defences and works for the team, for his coach, for his partner - all the while scoring his own share.
obviously I knew this story already but I'M SO THRILLED THE GUARDIAN SHIPS THEM. also I corrected their one little mistake.
dlfkjdflkgjklfg. I'm so excited to read this. you have no idea.
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Date: 2011-05-14 01:50 am (UTC)I'm kind of out of it, so this is not going to be my most coherent comment, sorry.
Date: 2011-05-14 01:57 am (UTC)obviously this filled me with a lot of (angst-related glee.) favorite line quoting time, since that's easier than stringing complete sentences together right now.
"It's going to be fine," Raúl says. He's staring fiercely at the seatback and his mouth is set. If will alone could do it, Raúl's would make it so.
EVERY TIME YOU MENTION RAUL MY HEART. my poor heart. dsfkjlkjt.
For a moment Fernando is frozen, ice-cold. All he can manage is a single, helpless glance at Raúl, who looks like he's been hit in the stomach. Belatedly, he makes himself move; gets up, puts down his magazine. He doesn't even fumble
oh my god, yes. so many feelings so few words. this is like, exactly what I wanted. gut-punched Raul because MORI MIGHT BE FORCED AWAY FROM HIM BY EVIL MANAGEMENT.
"No," Fernando says, quickly, finding his voice at last, "no, I want, I want to stay, I." I want, I want.
I KNOW WHAT YOU WANT MORI.
Raúl and Hierro are waiting, twin statues of forbidding iron.
love this description so so much.
Raúl's face almost collapses in on itself with relief. A shot of something warm goes through Fernando's chest
jesus so much true love. it's kind of amazing.
Raúl throws an insistent arm over Fernando's neck, tugging, bringing Fernando's head down. His mouth brushes Fernando's ear. "We're going to get this one. You and me."
He grips Fernando's hand and vanishes down the tunnel. Fernando closes his eyes and thanks his lucky stars.
Then he opens them again, and runs out onto the pitch.
long quote is excessively long but I loved the ending of this a lot. it's a beautiful way to end the section.
the whole at Barca section is obviously REALLY PAINFUL to me, and I could really quote it all to you and then just be like LSKDJFLKDSJLKJSFDL FEELINGS and so on. so I will restrain myself slightly, and only quote a few bits.
Fernando closes his eyes and clutches at Raúl more tightly than he should, inhaling deep. "No, it wasn't," he chokes into Raúl's shoulder, trying to disguise it with a laugh. Raúl's hand tightens in his hair, briefly.
fucking hell. I like how you manage to convey YEARS OF TRUE LOVE and A MAGICAL PAST THAT WILL NEVER RETURN and just like. so many feelings into one sentence. no one even makes out or says anything about their feelings and yet you still break my heart and also encapsulate what I love about this pairing. how do you do it? also, please never stop.
It could be worse. It could be so much worse.
In the dressing room, he strokes one finger along the silky red and blue stripes, and doesn't think of anything else.
JESUS. I love you so much. also, Mori, honey, HOW COULD IT ME WORSE? you are the SWORN RIVAL OF YOUR BOYFRIEND???? I am kind of emotional today already and this is making me all sdkfjkfdjgfkljgklf. also, I am a huge fan of the emotional repression. SURPRISE.
Raúl's almost the only left by then -- Raúl and Guti and Michel and Iker Casillas. (They're still friends, of course -- but he doesn't see Raúl as often, now.) Real go out like a feather. Fernando feels a strange sense of déjà vu when he scores, and the ultras applaud -- but it's washed away by the roar of the traveling Kop, who are louder. He belongs to them now.
ok I know this is me MISSING THE POINT of this section but this is basically the sentence that made me the saddest. like, idk, I'm glad AU Mori is happy but HE DIDN'T BELONG THERE OK? and it kind of hurts to think of him forgetting Madrid like that. dlkfldfjlkfjglk. this definitely twisted the knife a little.
two parts!
Date: 2011-05-14 01:58 am (UTC)of returning to Spain and playing at the Bernabéu as an outsider, over and over and over again -- is more than Fernando's pride can take
love how plausible this is.
OK PREPARE FOR MY DAVID VILLA THING TO MANIFEST. sorry.
Villa and his and his burning black eyes and his predatory aura self-belief. It's not really surprising. Fernando's always been weak to those things.
yes yes yes. I'm sure we've discussed this and I think most of my DV/Mori fic has the idea of "DV as Raul-esque" as a main part of Mori's attraction. but this is such an elegant description of Villa, first of all, and such a wonderful bit of self-awareness on Mori's part that it just makes me appreciate this pairing all over again. go you! you are such a good writer.
asks him how it's going at Valencia, and it seems to work, because Villa sticks his hands in his pockets and almost smiles.
They combine for a beautiful goal, Villa off Fernando's backheel. For a minute, Fernando does think of what could have been -- but only for a minute.
I don't really have anything to say other than YOUR DESCRIPTIONS OF DV MAKE ME SO JEALOUS AND ALSO THRILLED I GET TO READ YOUR WRITING. and that I love that it's Villa scoring from one of Mori's assists that makes Mori really wonder if they can make it work. XD
Villa shrugs. "I didn't score."
DAVID VILLA ILU.
"Yeah?" Villa says. "That a good thing?"
"Yeah," Fernando answers, and ignores the sudden and unexpected tightening of his throat. "Really good." He pushes it back, smiling wide, and says, "See you in a couple rounds, maybe."
"Before that," Villa says, and something about the way he says it makes Fernando almost flush.
kdljflkjglkjflg. this dialogue. and Mori's feelings. and DV hitting on Mori and almost making him blush and just !!!!!!!!!!!! I kind of forgot how much I loved this pairing - too bad it's sandwiched between my two unbreakable OTPs. but this is perfect.
He doesn't say, If I had, this would never have happened.
That's a mistake he's never going to make again.
jesus, MY HEART. girl you are killing me here.
"I'm staying," Raúl says. There's an immeasurable weariness buried deep in his voice. "One more season."
Fernando's quiet. What he thinks is, Is it worth it, will it be enough, will it ever be enough. He says none of it, because he already knows the answers.
heart. broken.
Fernando fetches two long-necked bottles and carries them out between two fingers, condensation dripping on his palm. He hands one to Raúl and eases down beside him, leaning back with a small oof.
Raúl drains half the bottle, eyes closed. Before them, the sinking sun paints the sky a brilliant orange. A high-pitched child's laugh drifts up from the back lawn.
this is just such a beautiful image. idk, it feels like an intimate summer night? I'm not really sure how to word this better but this really conjured up an image for me of summer, esp with the bit before I didn't mention about the net in the backyard. and just like. them growing old together. sorry, I'm inarticulate. but this is such a great detail (the condensation! sitting down cautiously because he's getting old!) that's so representative to me of what a great writer you are.
okok, I am not going to quote the rest of the fic from this point on but just - wow. Raul's tension and stress and SADNESS and Mori being there for him and painting him a picture of the future where THEY TRAVEL TOGETHER and just. Raúl's arm is trembling where it brushes his. and
He wraps an arm around Raúl's shoulders, the fit as familiar, as comfortable as it's been since they were teenagers. and
Raúl sags against him, just for a moment. His curls brush Fernando's cheek. Fernando turns his head just enough to press his lips to Raúl's forehead.
I am officially dead from this fic.
tl;dr I LOVE YOU AND THIS AND YOU ARE SO GOOD AT WRITING.
Re: two parts!
Date: 2011-05-14 02:09 am (UTC)like, a lot.
Re: two parts!
Date: 2011-05-15 04:47 am (UTC)though the gist of this is really THANK YOU ALWAYS.
I KNOW WHAT YOU WANT MORI.
Then you might be one up on the man himself, I'm not sure at this point. XD in this universe, if they have not gotten their act together yet (though they might have!, then this provides sort of a light bulb and sometime over the season they finally hook up. and Mori gets to stay in the end, obviously, and they win another CL title and cement the squad's place in history. and Raul never has those awful slumps, just a more gradual/natural decline until they eventually retire a couple years apart, to massive appreciation. the end.
no one even makes out or says anything about their feelings
As a matter of fact, there's only one of these five scenarios where the slash is made explicit, and it's the one where Raul's name is never mentioned. idk what that means, but I noticed it when I was finishing up and was like "...huh."
I know this is me MISSING THE POINT of this section but this is basically the sentence that made me the saddest.
oh no, that is EXACTLY the point of that section. that line and the last one about not being able to imagine anything else. it seems happy, but it's wrong, like one of those horror movies. XD (I mean, I'm told Mori endeared himself to the Liverpool fans despite not performing his best, so there was some genuine feeling here of "it would've been nice for everyone if it had worked out," BUT. no Valencia? having RM as most important club displaced by Liverpool? LOSING TOUCH WITH RAUL? no.)
OK PREPARE FOR MY DAVID VILLA THING TO MANIFEST. sorry.
hee hee don't apologize, naturally I think of you, like, anytime I write DV now. your comments on DV are always extra valuable! so, an extra thank you.
I kind of forgot how much I loved this pairing - too bad it's sandwiched between my two unbreakable OTPs.
yes, basically, my thoughts exactly. I really enjoyed writing this section, but my biases slip in with Mori still being kind of hung up on Raul. and David Silva not actually being around to make me feel guilty. (though since it's 2006, he must be lurking somewhere in the background with the beginning of his hopeless crush...)
the last section was the hardest to write but I really, really wanted it to come out right so I'm glad it seems to have had the right effect, yay. :)))
thank you, again, for ALL THE NICE THINGS. it is very flattering. :D
Re: two parts!
Date: 2011-05-15 06:18 pm (UTC)I like this. a lot. I also firmly believe this is how it should have happened.
As a matter of fact, there's only one of these five scenarios where the slash is made explicit, and it's the one where Raul's name is never mentioned. idk what that means, but I noticed it when I was finishing up and was like "...huh."
ahaha. since I am tin-hatted beyond all reason, I saw them all as super-slashy, except for the Liverpool one.
it's wrong, like one of those horror movies. ... BUT. no Valencia? having RM as most important club displaced by Liverpool? LOSING TOUCH WITH RAUL? no.
I KNOW RIGHT. just, I cannot even imagine. he wouldn't even be Mori anymore. D:
(though since it's 2006, he must be lurking somewhere in the background with the beginning of his hopeless crush...
I did such a good job restraining myself from being like AND OBVIOUSLY BACK IN VALENCIA A VERY YOUNG DS HAS JUST FALLEN IN LOVE. but you know that I thought it a little bit.
Re: two parts!
Date: 2011-05-15 11:21 pm (UTC)but you know that I thought it a little bit.
HAHAHAHAHA I KNEW IT. that's okay, you knew I meant it in the story, too.
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Date: 2011-05-14 02:38 am (UTC)Also, I am embarrassingly behind on your spy fic. Need to read those too.
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Date: 2011-05-15 12:22 am (UTC)But I forgot to say below, have you heard about this (http://29.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_ll08hxvXnx1qg8jq6o1_500.jpg). *_*
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Date: 2011-05-15 04:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-05-15 04:37 am (UTC)you guys have trained me well, is what I'm saying.
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Date: 2011-05-15 04:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-05-15 04:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-05-14 03:06 am (UTC)But oh man, each one of these snippets is so painful--I'll admit to being partial to the Liverpool one, that and the one with Villa, but jeez, my heart.
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Date: 2011-05-15 12:17 am (UTC)And despite all this, in the same interview (http://www.as.com/futbol/articulo/futbol-galactico-raul-sera-dificil/20090927dasdaiftb_59/Tes) where he explains a lot of what went down, when they ask him what the words Real Madrid suggest to him, he says: "That I'm a Madridista, that I lived the best years of my professional life there, that la Septima is my favorite trophy. They suggest to me wonderful friends..." This from a guy was raised in Toledo and didn't join the club until age 21, so it's not even that he was a childhood supporter or a canterano or anything. It's all the kool-aid. (He's not the only one, either. It consistently amazes me, not necessarily in a good way, to see the kind of loyalty Real Madrid inspires even in people they fuck over, and I'm speaking as a fan.)
Ah. Sorry to get carried away there. I have what they call a lot of feelings about this. Thank you so much for the comment, as I should have said right off the bat. I really appreciate it. :) The Liverpool idea started this whole fic going in the first place, so I'm particularly happy that stood out to you -- and every fic can use a little David Villa, as far as I'm concerned. :D
(um, wow, that is a really long comment. SORRY.)
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Date: 2011-05-15 12:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-05-15 01:11 am (UTC)Anyway, that's why there are these constant stories about Mourinho vs Perez, Mourinho vs Valdano, will he stay, will he go, etc. The amount of autonomy Mourinho's managed to wrangle is totally unprecedented for a manager under Perez. Like, jaw-droppingly so. I think he's the only person right now who could manage that, too, so for that reason alone I'd be glad to have him. Though we'll see how this transfer window goes, ahahahaha.
I realize I'm not painting my club in the best light in these comments, haha, but of the many reasons I love them, the administration sure is not one. Neither is the shiny glitzy super marketing blitz of recent years.
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Date: 2011-05-15 01:38 am (UTC)And in this context, the speculation that Valdano will go before Mourinho does is honestly amazing to me. Whaaat. I may intensely dislike him, but I honestly think from Madrid's perspective, they're better off WITH Mourinho (and some form of stability) than without him.
And, to be fair, I don't think the administration of most clubs holds up to close scrutiny. Certainly Barcelona, even before this latest catastrophe with Busquets, had its fair share of issues. (The ways in which Sandro Rosell is a jackass, let me count them...) And with Liverpool, half the reason everyone is so hopeful these days isn't even because of the results on the pitch, but the fact that so far, nobody in our administration is openly fucking things up on a grand scale. (At least not yet.)
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Date: 2011-05-15 02:15 am (UTC)Okay, one last link and I promise I'm done: there's a really great article on Valdano (and Real's identity crisis) by Simon Kuper, of Soccernomics fame, here (http://www.ft.com/cms/s/2/cfca659c-2359-11e0-8389-00144feab49a.html#axzz1Bhd4Xgt7) -- it was written around the first round of the alleged power struggle, I believe. I'll repeat here what I said downthread, which is that the contrast between his important role in the Morientes/Ronaldo deal and his actual reaction to Ronaldo's presentation (http://www.guardian.co.uk/football/2002/sep/03/newsstory.sport3?INTCMP=SRCH) is also... interesting. And instructive.
As for that last point, no, you're definitely right on that! It's just that then you look at clubs like Arsenal, which have very good directors in key positions, and think, gosh, I wonder what that would be like. I mean, they've got other drama to make up for it, and we'll see what the new ownership deal brings, but... it must be nice. XD
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Date: 2011-05-15 02:45 am (UTC)Oh man, that's a fantastic article, and a VERY interesting glimpse at Valdano--you really get the sense he loves Madrid, which, if the rumors about him leaving the club thanks to Mourinho's power grab are true, makes me actually feel a little bad for the guy. (Wow, of all the sentences I never thought I'd type.)
Yeah, Arsenal's stability up top is definitely something to be envied. I may question whether they're taking enough advantage OF that stability (and dear God, do not get me started on Arsene Wenger this season) but as a Liverpool fan who, in her first season of supporting the club, has had to deal with court cases, the threat of administration, last minute takeover deals, the threat of relegation, a hated manager being fired in favor of a club icon taking over, the club's star striker demanding a last-minute transfer--Arsenal have had it easy this season in comparison. At least in terms of developments off the pitch. On the pitch is an entirely different story.
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Date: 2011-05-14 03:17 am (UTC)!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! and
aslkdjskldjasljdlajdkajsldkjalkdjaklsjakjka!!!!!!!!!!!!
Ok. I loved Valdano. ♥ I think between him and El Buitre, they're both hardcore Raúl/Mori shippers.
It's not as bad as the Camp Nou, with Figo. There's a storm of whistles every time he touches the ball, and a steady stream of chants from the Ultra Sur, but no pigs' heads, very few signs. Maybe it's because they know he didn't want to go, or maybe it's because they just don't care as much in Madrid. Or maybe they just don't care as much about him. It doesn't matter. Fernando cares enough for all of them.
THIS. THIS RIGHT THERE. If he made the Barça move, he'd have been dead to me. I'm so glad Fernando turned down Barça on principle! (or maybe he feared a sex ban lasting a lifetime, either way, that man had his priorities sorted out)
When will they both retire and sail out to the horizon on a nice boat? :( Sigh. their happily ever after is so long overdue.
BUT I LOVE THIS. And also YOU.
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Date: 2011-05-14 11:14 pm (UTC)Re: Valdano: I'm fascinated by him and his role yet seesaw wildly on my opinion, argh. XD I mean, clearly he's extremely intelligent, thoughtful, well-spoken, etc... and at the same time, HE'S PEREZ' STOOGE. Like, surely he can do better than that! Stage a coup or something! Anyway, I find the contrast between his part in the Ronaldo deal and his reaction to Ronaldo's presentation (http://www.guardian.co.uk/football/2002/sep/03/newsstory.sport3?INTCMP=SRCH) interesting.
I think between him and El Buitre, they're both hardcore Raúl/Mori shippers.
Well, he'd want his protege to be happy, of course. Hee.
When will they both retire and sail out to the horizon on a nice boat? :( Sigh. their happily ever after is so long overdue.
A boat! I should have mentioned a boat. It really is overdue, sigh. But Raul still has another couple seasons of scoring left before that can happen.
Anyway, thank you again, iluuuu. ♥ ♥ ♥
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Date: 2011-05-14 12:55 pm (UTC)raul and mori both being so full of life and anger and angst at the start and then having everything slowly die off into tiredness (Raúl sags against him, just for a moment.). YOU WRITE BEAUTIFUL PROSE.
and this was really really lovely ♥
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Date: 2011-05-14 11:04 pm (UTC)(and omg, your icon. I love that photo. ♥_♥)
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Date: 2011-05-15 09:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-18 12:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-22 06:40 am (UTC)In the dressing room, he strokes one finger along the silky red and blue stripes, and doesn't think of anything else.
ahhhhhh. so fucking painfully perfect.
i think why i like this so much is because there's so much detail and attention to detail (i'm kind of a detail whore lol) and the fact that you wrote an pairing i love (and doesn't get much attention anymore :() you have this talent to inflict bouts of heartbreak but also foreshadow hope. it's really amazing.
okay i'll stop rambling hahaha :D
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Date: 2012-01-23 03:47 am (UTC)and doesn't get much attention anymore :(
Tell me about it, I'm crazy about this pairing but what with Mori retiring it seems like they've dropped even further off the radar, which is tragic.
Anyway, thank you again, I really appreciate the nice comment!
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Date: 2012-05-13 09:23 pm (UTC)That's all, since everyone has already left such huge comments that there's not much left to say, except I agree that this is fantastic and you're a fantastic writer and I've memmed and bookmarked all your fics and reread them all the time and would and do recommend them to everyone who doesn't know them yet, as they should.
jdskfh.
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Date: 2012-05-15 06:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-20 07:07 am (UTC)And can I translate it in Chinese? Want to share the artistic work with more friends.