acchikocchi | the nature of humanity and badass spaceships (anyone else but you) [2/2]

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It took Álvaro a while to catch his breath, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling until the stars went away and his heartbeat returned to normal. Then he rolled over.

Raúl was flopped over face-down into a pillow. His back glinted with sweat. "Hey," Álvaro said, poking him in the shoulder.

Raúl made a noise into the pillow.

"Hey," Álvaro said, and Raúl mumbled, "What?"

"Silva said he didn't think you were into guys."

This noise was surprised. "You talked to David?"

Álvaro made a face. "Yeah, I talked to David. I had to call him anyway. It came up."

For a minute he thought he'd gotten away with it, because Raúl wasn't the type to ask probing follow-up questions. Then Raúl said, voice muffled, "About what?"

"Huh?"

"What?"

"What do you mean, what?"

"What'd you call David about?"

Shit. Álvaro's brain scrambled for an answer before inspiration came in a flash. "Tips on Villa's weak spots. Clásico's coming up again, you know."

Raúl snorted with laughter into the pillow and didn't say anything else, so Álvaro counted that as a success. He waited another minute before returning to his line of questioning.

"So?" he prodded. "What's the deal?"

Raúl made another muffled noise and rolled over on his back. "I'm not, I guess. I wasn't. Not really."

"Then what's going on here?"

Raúl pushed himself up on his elbows. His eyes ran up and down the length of Álvaro's body, and then he grinned.

Álvaro's neck was heating up again. Seriously, what the fuck.

"I don't know how to tell you this," Raúl said solemnly, or as close as he could get, "but it's because I feel sorry for you. I know otherwise you wouldn't — " his voice wavered, " — wouldn't ever be able to get lai— "

He couldn't finish the sentence because he was laughing too hard. Álvaro almost smacked him, then thought better of it and grabbed a pillow instead. The thwack of feathers against his head only made Raúl laugh harder. Then Álvaro pounced, and then eventually they stopped laughing altogether.

The question wouldn't leave Álvaro alone, though. Álvaro refused to believe that one abortive summer of fooling around age sixteen left a guy as — competent — as Raúl. Unfortunately, the kind of time when it was natural for that to come to mind was also the kind of time his mouth had a tendency to run off without his brain's input. "Seriously," he said a couple days later, lying boneless and wrung-out on the sheets, "how did you get so — " He cut himself off, but it was too late.

"What?" Raúl said not-at-all innocently. "What was that?"

Álvaro thought about pretending he hadn't said anything, but he knew that would be useless, so he rolled his eyes and kicked at Raúl's calf. "You know exactly what I'm talking about."

Raúl was grinning so widely it took up his entire face. "Natural talent, I guess," he said. "If I'm just that good."

"You're that annoying," Álvaro said, "that's what you are. I don't know why I put up with you."

He could tell from Raúl's face that he was about to work some kind of innuendo into his response. Álvaro kicked at him again. "Don't even."

"Don't even what?" Raúl said, but his innocent face also fell woefully short of convincing.

"Seriously, though," Álvaro said a minute later. "Just Silva, are you sure?"

Raúl snorted. "I think I would remember." He tucked his hands behind his head and looked over at Álvaro. "I mean, what about you? You like girls."

Álvaro shrugged. "I like whoever's available." He never thought of it as experimenting, because he knew what he was interested in; it wasn't like he was looking for an answer. "I don't know, after I was promoted there were some guys, but I took a break when I went to England and never really picked it back up."

Raúl snickered. "Was it a hobby? Because that's what you're making it sound like."

"The point is," Álvaro said, ignoring him, "I at least had practice."

"Did you get merit badges?"

"Shut up."

Raúl was too busy snickering to himself to answer; Álvaro knew he was probably coming up with an entire classification system. All right, fine, the idea of a merit badge in cocksucking was pretty funny. He couldn't help a snort of laughter.

"Anyway," Raúl said a minute later, "since you think I'm so good — " Álvaro rolled his eyes again, " — why's it matter?"

Álvaro shrugged. "I don't know. It's just weird."

"Well," Raúl said reasonably, "then what made you start again?"

Álvaro opened his mouth and had nothing to say.

Raúl took in his expression and nodded understandingly. "That's okay, I know. I'm pretty irresistible."

"Hardly," Álvaro said witheringly. Raúl just laughed and tugged him over again.

The next weekend was another round of Euro qualifiers, which suddenly and abruptly broke up Álvaro's routine. Normally he liked international duty — now that Xabi was at Madrid most of the guys he hung out with were his club teammates anyway, but it was always pretty fun to get together as a group, even the guys he normally didn't get along with so well. He almost always roomed with Raúl, anyway, so it wasn't that different from normal.

What Álvaro wasn't really sure he'd noticed before was the amount of time Raúl spent hanging around his old teammates from Valencia, Villa and Mata and Marchena and Silva. Especially Silva.

He didn't see Raúl all day, outside of training sessions. It maybe made him a little more aggressive than usual when he finally did, back at the hotel, because afterward Raúl flopped over, eyes closed, and looked like he was going to fall asleep right there.

Álvaro almost let him. Almost.

"But really," he said. "Why?"

Raúl opened one eye. "What are you talki— Álvaro."

"Come on," Álvaro persisted. "There's got to be a reason."

Raúl groaned and put a pillow over his head. "I don't know."

"Well, you should! You started it."

"You started it."

"I think I'd remember if I had."

The pillow vanished and revealed Raúl looking surprised. "You don't remember?"

"I didn't say that," Álvaro said. "I said I'd remember starting it, if I had, and I don't, so clearly I didn't."

Raúl's brow furrowed. He stared at Álvaro. Álvaro let out a huff of air and said, "The point is, it was definitely you."

Surprisingly, Raúl grinned. "I don't think so. I remember what happened."

"Oh yeah?" Álvaro said, uncomfortably aware that the harder he tried to remember the less actually did. "So what was that then, oh enlightened one?"

"Well..." Raúl drew out the word and somehow infused it with the same insinuations as one of his stupid leers. "You got really drunk, but I didn't, because I was just back and I didn't want the mister to get mad at me — " here his sanctimonious tone made Álvaro snort out loud, " — and then you started to go on about how you were really happy I was back and then you got, like, really clingy. More than usual." Raúl paused. "And then you pretty much jumped me."

There was an uncomfortable prickling at the back of Álvaro's neck. He was afraid it might be a blush. "If — if — that's true, why'd you go along with it?"

Raúl looked thoughtful. Then he shrugged. "I guess because you're hot."

"Damn straight," said Álvaro, and then, "Ha, so you admit it."

Raúl laughed disbelievingly into the covers. "Duh," he said. "I'm dumb, not blind."

"You should have more respect for yourself," Álvaro said piously, which made Raúl laugh more. (Which was good; self-awareness was a virtue but Álvaro didn't like it when Raúl said things like that, even joking. He was the only one allowed to pick on Raúl.)

"Can we get back to what we were doing now?" Raúl said plaintively.

Álvaro pretended to think about it. "I guess, if you want me that badly."

"Maybe I do," Raúl said.

Álvaro blinked. "What?"

If that was Raúl's game face he was doing a good job of faking it. But Álvaro always knew what Raúl was thinking. Shit.

Raúl grinned suddenly. "You're cute when you think too hard," he said, and what the fuck, Álvaro was bright red all over. Raúl started laughing like a maniac. Álvaro slapped his own face, then punched Raúl in the shoulder.

"Bite me," he told Raúl, and Raúl said, "Okay."

There was only one league game to deal with back in Madrid before the Champions' League quarterfinals; as a matter of fact, in the anticipation, Álvaro had almost forgotten about it. Which was stupid, because it wasn't like Gijón were a cakewalk or anything, but it would be tough, not impossible, and they could handle it.

Only they didn't.

Álvaro didn't look at the press. He didn't think about it; he refused to. There were eight weeks left in the league. The first quarterfinal was in three days. He had to think about that instead.

As it turned out, they whipped Spurs four to nothing like a walk in the park and it was a beautiful night for everyone outside of north London. Álvaro didn't play and he didn't care. The semifinals were practically in their hands.

But even then, it wasn't quite enough to completely banish the niggling question from his mind.

Álvaro was aware, intellectually, that the normal thing to do at this point would probably be to let it go. But he couldn't help having a naturally curious personality, and —

The thing was, if Raúl wasn't into guys, had he started doing this because he thought Álvaro wanted to? Álvaro did, obviously, but only if Raúl did, too. He didn't need a pity fuck from his best friend.

The other question, the one that lurked uncomfortably beyond what he allowed himself to think about, was that if Raúl was right about Álvaro starting it all in the first place, why he had.

The thing about that one was that he thought he knew the answer.

Avoidance wasn't healthy, blah blah blah whatever. The truth was, Álvaro had a Champions' League quarterfinal match to think about. After the first leg it was practically a formality — but that didn't mean it meant any less to Álvaro when the match ended and he'd played ninety minutes and they hadn't let in a goal and they'd won. Then the results from the Ukraine came through, and for the next two weeks Álvaro practically had an obligation to forget about everything that didn't have to do with FC Barcelona and their imminent demise.

The first clash, the league match, was only four days later. He'd heard people saying it didn't count for anything: the fuck it didn't. Every time they played Barcelona it counted, and the league wasn't fucking over yet.

They were going to win. They had to. He could feel it.

That was until Álvaro heard the crowd roar and looked up from the bench in time to see Raúl clothesline David Villa inside the fucking box.

Álvaro's reactions crashed into each other too quickly to separate: a flash of feral satisfaction, immediately overwhelmed by dumbstruck and incredulous anger, because what the hell had Raúl been thinking inside the box? Even as he thought it, the red card went up, glowing incongruously under the lights, and on its heels the call for a direct penalty.

So they were screwed. Álvaro swore aloud, before he could stop himself. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mourinho laughing, in a terrifying way; on the field Iker was just standing still, hands on his hips. Then Álvaro's attention was caught by Raúl coming off the field, shaking his head, and Álvaro didn't need to see inside his head to know the anger radiating from his hunched shoulders and jerky stride was directed at least as much at himself as at the call.

And there was something else: the urge to go over and shake Raúl by the shoulders and tell him it was going to be all right, they were going to take care of it, all of them.

He tried to catch Raúl's eye. But Raúl ignored them all, stalked right past the bench and down the steps to the tunnel. Álvaro couldn't help looking after him. He knew what it felt like, he wished —

He had to look back to the field. Everyone was lining up for the kick. Messi took it, and of course it went in, and there it was, they were down by one.

Mourinho gestured at Karanka, who turned to him and said, "Álvaro, suit up."

He shut it all out of his mind. He had to. He had to shut out everything except the fight, except the sharp narrow rectangle of bright green grass, until Ronaldo's penalty arrowed past Valdes and they were equal, and nine minutes later the whistle blew.

Like switching from black and white to color, everything else came back all at once. The crowd was roaring; he'd never heard that kind of ovation at the Bernabéu for a draw. He wasn't happy with it — but he shoved that all aside. There was something else on his mind now.

But by the time he got to the dressing room, Raúl was already gone.

* * *

Álvaro rang the doorbell, then rang it again, then leaned on it until he could hear, muffled, the incessant clang-clang-clang-clang-clang that he knew drove Raúl crazy.

It didn't seem to be working this time, though. "Raúl," he hollered, after a couple minutes with no response. "Come on, Raúl. I know you're in there."

He heard something that might have been footsteps in the hall and banged on the door with renewed enthusiasm. "Open the fucking door, Albiol!"

The door flew open. Raúl wasn't smiling, which was unusual enough; he looked furious. "Done sulking?" Álvaro said deliberately, and for a minute he thought Raúl was going to hit him.

Instead he gave an angry growl and stalked away, though he didn't actually slam the door in Álvaro's face. Álvaro shoved inside and followed him. "So you fucked up. So what. So has everyone."

Raúl ignored him.

Álvaro persisted. "There's nothing you can do about it, okay? We got a draw anyway, and we're going to beat the crap out of them in the final, so get over i— "

Raúl whirled around, eyes blazing, and suddenly he was right in front of Álvaro, looming over him as his hands clamped on Álvaro's shoulders and he shoved Álvaro against the wall.

That was okay with Álvaro. He fisted both hands in Raúl's hair and yanked; Raúl's head came down and he kissed Álvaro savagely. It hurt, all teeth and anger; Álvaro thought his lip was bleeding. But he kissed back just as hard, pulling at Raúl's hair as Raúl gripped his shoulders hard enough to bruise.

When Raúl finally let him go, it was only for them to push and pull each other in the direction of the bedroom. Álvaro went down first and yanked Raúl with him; Raúl's head slammed back against the headboard and he cursed. Then they were rolling over in a tangle of groping hands until Raúl came out on top, of course, bringing his full weight to bear down on Álvaro. Neither of them was interested in wasting time: Raúl was already undoing his jeans with one hand — the other remained clamped on Álvaro's shoulder — even as he kissed Álvaro, or Álvaro kissed him; Álvaro was trying to wriggle out of his own without unwrapping his leg from around Raúl. As he fumbled, Raúl's hands met his and helped him yank them the rest of the way off. A detached part of Álvaro's mind registered yet another kink he hadn't been aware of. Then his shirt was gone too, then Álvaro was biting his lip and swearing aloud as beside his head the tendons on Raúl's arms stood out.

It burned, in a good way. He rode it out, adjusting to Raúl's rhythm, until he could push back. Raúl was panting, teeth bared, sweat dripping from his forehead to Álvaro's neck. "That the best you can do?" Álvaro said — gasped — and Raúl made a deep angry noise and thrust harder. Álvaro grunted with satisfaction and dug his nails into Raúl's back, slippery with sweat. The pounding behind his eyes echoed Raúl's hips slamming into him, and the agonizing throb pulsing through his body. Someone made a rough needy sound; a second later Álvaro realized distantly it was himself. He couldn't think, couldn't take it any more — Just as he thought that, Raúl came first, with a shudder and a groan, arms trembling with strain. That was the final straw; Álvaro followed seconds later, listening almost in surprise to the hoarse sound he didn't even recognize emerging from his throat, and as he collapsed against the sheets, he was distantly aware of Raúl doing the same, beside him.

* * *

For a while — a few minutes, at least — Álvaro just lay there, breathing hard, and waited for his higher brain functions to reengage. When they did, he pushed himself upright.

Raúl's head was buried in the pillow; tufts of black hair stuck up all over. There was a line of angry red scratches down his back.

Álvaro reached out and smacked the back of Raúl's head, lightly; then, after a moment of hesitation, let his hand drop to rest on the back of Raúl's neck. "Feel better?"

Raúl made a muffled, unintelligible sound.

"I can't hear you," Álvaro said.

Raúl turned his head a little, though not far enough for Álvaro to see his face. "Maybe," he mumbled.

Álvaro absently petted along Raúl's neck, burying his fingers in Raúl's hair and releasing to stroke down to the top of his spine.

Eventually Raúl turned his head a little more, so Álvaro could see one side of his face, and said, "It's a final."

"I know," Álvaro said.

"I wanted to play it at home."

"I know." Álvaro dug his fingers in and squeezed. Raúl's shoulders tensed and relaxed again, and then he said something else Álvaro couldn't make out. "What?"

Raúl's head turned all the way, though he still wasn't quite looking at Álvaro. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Álvaro said. "Villa can be a little bitch sometimes." He sighed. "Besides, the league's gone anyway. Might as well give yourself a break."

He didn't get why Raúl was looking at him like that. "What?" he said.

"I know it is," Raúl said. He was still looking at Álvaro weird.

Álvaro shrugged, a little uncomfortably. "So?"

"Nothing," Raúl said after a minute. He rolled over, finally — Álvaro's hand dropped to his shoulder — and let one arm fall over his eyes. He heaved a sigh. "This is why people call me stupid, huh. I know how the game goes. I should be over this already, right?"

Álvaro didn't answer because he was a little worried at his own reaction, which was a strong desire to kiss Raúl until he stopped sounding so upset. He didn't really feel like examining that, so instead he removed his hand and straightened up.

"Okay," he said, "you know what? Enough of this shit." Raúl's arm moved, and past the crook of his elbow one black eye peered at Álvaro. "Here's what we're going to do: we're going to get up, get out of the house, and go watch some mindless cinematic violence. Then we're going to come back here, get out the tequila, and you're going to screw me into the mattress again. Deal?"

Raúl had started to perk up as Álvaro went along; now he was just staring at Álvaro, mouth slightly open. Álvaro wondered if he needed to repeat himself. Then Raúl was grinning again, his usual Raúl grin, the big, dopey one that Álvaro knew better than his own. "Sure," he said. "Yeah. Sounds good."

"Of course it does," said Álvaro. "It's my idea. Now get up and take a shower." This time he smacked Raúl on the ass, and Raúl yelped. He got up, though, and on the way to the shower leaned over and cupped a hand around Álvaro's neck to pull him over for a thorough kiss.

Álvaro was okay with that, too.

He never did find out what Mourinho said to Raúl before their next training session. All Raúl told him, looking better already than the day before, was that he was going to Valencia, too. The days before the final telescoped: one moment they were going over the aftermath of the draw, then it was their last training session in Madrid, then they were on the plane — then suddenly they were there, in Valencia, and Mourinho was announcing the starting lineup, and they were in the dressing room, and in two minutes Álvaro was going to be starting a cup final against Barcelona.

Everything seemed to crystallize into a single narrow focus. Álvaro took a deep breath and got ready to move.

There was a hand gripping his shoulder. "Hey," a familiar voice said in his ear. Álvaro looked over his shoulder.

"You better win this one," Raúl said.

"Don't worry," said Álvaro. "We will."

* * *

As it turned out, they did.

* * *

It all blurred together: the field, the locker room, the flight back. Álvaro lost his voice after about five minutes, from yelling. There were cameras everywhere, flashing in his face; he couldn't remember the last time he'd smiled so much or so hard. Then there was the bus ride and suddenly Cibeles, lit up with neon white light: glowing.

In the ebb and flow of the celebrations he kept losing Raúl and then colliding with him again. People kept handing him drinks and cameras and things to sign; he posed for a thousand different pictures, grinning so hard his face hurt. At one point Esteban draped a flag over his shoulders, though it slipped off minutes later. A few minutes later, he found Esteban and Raúl together and put the flag around Raúl's shoulders for another photo.

Announcements — he barely heard what. Indiscriminate cheering. Iker with the flag, kissing her cheek. What time was it — four? five? Leaving now, trailed by television crews, spotlights, microphones, and being shepherded back to the bus, back to the training grounds, and it was over, for official purposes. But not for Álvaro.

The club had drivers ready for everyone, foresight the tiny part of Álvaro's mind capable of detachment thought was probably a smart move. The rest of him was looking for someone.

There he was. Álvaro grabbed Raúl's sleeve. "Come with me," he said, so Raúl did.

He had the hazy idea that because there was a driver it probably wouldn't be a good idea to grope Raúl in the back seat. So instead he waited until they were on his own front step, fumbling with the mysteriously stubborn lock, trying not too make too much noise with their fits of stifled laughter. Raúl batted his hand away, pretending to look affronted, then worked a hand under Álvaro's shirt as soon as Álvaro turned back to peer at his keys.

Inside, he didn't really think about where he was going until he found himself collapsing on the bed, arms and legs going every which way. Raúl flopped down next to him. The high of adrenaline and victory was slowly coming down, replaced by a happy bubbling euphoria. Álvaro still couldn't stop smiling.

He heard someone's voice humming something. The tune sounded familiar. After a minute, he realized the voice was his own.

"Campeones, campeones...." Raúl was singing along under his breath, hoarse and badly out of tune but with the smile clear in his voice.

Álvaro stopped himself. "No, no, wait. This one's better." He cleared his throat and tried for the club hymn.

They managed to get through the chorus before Raúl stumbled on the verse and dissolved into laughter. It was probably because he wasn't a canterano. Álvaro generously decided to forgive him.

He said as much. Raúl said, looking solemn, "I bet a canterano would never have dropped the cup."

Álvaro rolled over and buried his cackles of delight in a pillow. "He's never going to be able to forget that," he said. "Never, never, never."

"Me neither," Raúl said, then dreamily, "Or Villa's face."

"You're welcome," Álvaro said magnanimously. He had thought of Raúl for a split second, as he yanked Villa off the ground, Raúl and —

Even under the lingering influence of alcohol, or maybe because of it, it unfolded before him in a glorious equation of genius and he had to fight not to ruin it by laughing again. Instead he put on his most serious expression and said, "See, my plan worked."

Raúl made a curious noise.

"Tips," Álvaro said. "From Silva. For the Clásico."

There was a moment of silence, before Raúl started to laugh so hard he actually fell over on his side. Álvaro let his own fit of laughter overtake him, almost until he cried. Raúl was giggling, practically, which made Álvaro laugh even harder. He was still laughing when Raúl crawled over and kissed him.

They were both ridiculously drunk. If Álvaro were more sober he would probably be wondering how they were managing it at all. But he was wondering if he'd wonder it, so did that count? Raúl's tongue was on his collarbone. Álvaro wrapped his hand around Raúl's neck.

It was neither very drawn out nor very heavy on finesse, but it didn't matter. The hazy inebriated glow of satisfaction made everything about Raúl seem extra nice. Judging by the happy noises Raúl was making, he felt okay too. Álvaro came half sprawled across Raúl's chest as Raúl's hand held him in place for a sloppy kiss. It was a few moments before he moved over and settled back against the bed contentedly.

"Congratulations to us," he said, with a sigh of satisfaction.

"Congratulations to us," Raúl repeated muzzily, then flopped a heavy arm over Álvaro's waist and curled his head against Álvaro's shoulder and went to sleep. Álvaro wriggled until he was comfortable, and seconds later did the same.

* * *

In retrospect, Álvaro wished the season could have ended there. But they'd all been hungry for the next match, riding higher on confidence than since last October and bristling with anticipation. There was a hectic buzz to training, any time the team was together.

It made the matches, in the end, all the worse.

He couldn't pinpoint exactly when it started to go wrong, when he started to sense the onset of a gut feeling he hated: that the end was coming down the line at them and there was nothing they could do about it, that no matter how hard they fought it just wouldn't be enough. But by the end of the first leg they were down two to nothing and they should have done better and it had been a miserable, awful game.

Álvaro didn't play the Zaragoza match. He didn't know if that made it better or worse. It was too late, it didn't matter, except it always mattered. It always mattered.

He didn't know if he'd play the next leg, either, but he did. For all the good it did. Even his anger at the disallowed goal was blunted by something like inevitability. For a moment, when Marcelo scored, it seemed like they might have a chance, and he kept fighting, because it wasn't over, it wasn't over — and then it was, and he had nothing left to show for it but a blend of sweat and anger and bitter acidic frustration.

He didn't know what to say afterward. None of them did: they all sat in the dressing room, silent, staring at the floor, or at each other.

After a while, some of the others started to get up, Marcelo and Jerzy and Leon and the Germans. Álvaro didn't move. Neither, next to him, did Raúl.

They sat on the bench, side by side, for a long time. Finally Raúl nudged Álvaro with an elbow and got to his feet. He still didn't say anything; he just looked down at Álvaro and jerked his head toward the door and Álvaro got up and followed him out.

It didn't matter how late it was: they weren't staying in Barcelona that night. The next thing Álvaro knew he was standing in the parking area, looking blankly down at his car. He got inside and wrapped both hands around the steering wheel, clenching his grip until his knuckles went white, and just stared down at it.

Then the passenger door opened and Raúl slid in.

"Come on," he said. "Let's go home."

* * *

It wasn't until Álvaro was halfway back to his house that what Raúl had said sunk in. He shot a look sideways at the passenger seat, involuntarily, but Raúl didn't notice; he was slumped in the seat, staring out the window.

They pulled in and Raúl trailed him into the house. Álvaro didn't know what to do so he tossed his keys on the counter and headed in the direction of the couch on autopilot, and Raúl followed. After a minute in which they both stared dully at nothing, Raúl said, "Hey. Come here."

Before Álvaro could react, Raúl reached out and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Álvaro held out for a minute — then he gave in and slumped against Raúl's shoulder.

"This sucks," he said.

Raúl rested his chin on top of Álvaro's head. "Yeah," he said. "I know it does."

Álvaro wasn't sure how long they stayed like that, in shared silence. After a while, Raúl nudged at him and Álvaro tipped his head up. They made out for a while, slowly, nothing more. It was — strangely comforting. Raúl wasn't trying to distract him or anything stupid like that; he knew how Álvaro felt. It was a joint thing, it was just right, it was just what he wanted and —

Maybe it was the disappointment, maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was the fact that they'd just handed a fourth European title to Barcelona and he just didn't fucking care any more. Or maybe it was just that everything he'd been pushing back since before this whole Clásico clusterfuck finally refused to be ignored any longer and Raúl's big warm hands were stroking down his back and he just wanted to know.

Whatever it was, he pulled away and said, "Hey. Don't put me off this time, okay?"

Raúl's brows drew together. "Álvaro?" he said.

"Look," Álvaro said, crossing his arms, "I don't care what it is, whatever, just — give me an answer, will you?"

Raúl was frowning. "About what?"

Álvaro wanted to shake him. What did he mean, about what, like Álvaro hadn't been trying to wring an answer out of him for the last four weeks. "What do you think? About you! Why me? Why — " he waved a hand between them — "this? Come on, Raúl!"

Raúl was staring at him. Álvaro held his eyes — and just like that, the flare of anger drained away. He let out a long, heavy breath and said, aware he sounded tired and not caring any more, "I just want to know why."

Raúl didn't answer for a minute. He just kept looking at Álvaro, expression unreadable. Then he laughed under his breath, and shook his head.

"What?" Álvaro demanded, to cover the uncomfortable drop in his stomach.

"Because I like you," Raúl said, rolling his eyes. "Duh."

"You what?" Álvaro said after a minute.

Raúl laughed again, a little disbelievingly, but his smile was affectionate. It was having a weird effect on Álvaro's insides. "Come on, Álvaro," he said, ruffling Álvaro's hair; Álvaro was still too off balance to bat his hand away. "Did you seriously think it was anything else?"

When Álvaro didn't say anything, Raúl laughed again. "And they call me the dumb one," he said to the ceiling.

"Not while I'm around they don't," Álvaro said automatically, then almost flushed.

Raúl, thankfully, either didn't notice or had enough material already. "No, really," he said. "I thought you got that much at least. It's a good thing I'm around or we'd really be in trouble."

"Shut the fuck up," Álvaro muttered. Then, rallying, he said, "Come on, didn't you — " care " — wonder? What I was thinking?"

"I didn't have to," Raúl said, like it was perfectly obvious. "I know."

For the second time in five minutes, Álvaro didn't know what to say.

"Oh," he said.

Raúl was looking unbearably smug. Álvaro narrowed his eyes. "You think you're so smart."

"Yup," Raúl said, grinning at him, so Álvaro kissed him after all.

A considerable time later, just when things were getting interesting, Raúl broke away and said, "So that's why you've been so prickly lately, huh?"

"Barcelona didn't fucking help," Álvaro muttered, instead of Yes.

Raúl made a thoughtful noise. "You know we're going to have start reminding ourselves of their good points eventually," he said. "International duty's only a couple weeks away."

That didn't make Álvaro feel any better. "Great," he said — sniped — "so you can hang out with Silva and ignore everyone else while I'm stuck making nice with Villa and Busquets. Sounds great."

There was a resounding silence. So resounding that Álvaro looked up, in time to see every step in the slow progression of comprehension dawning across Raúl's face, accompanied by a wide, wide grin.

Raúl said, unable in any way to disguise his glee, "Are you jealous?"

"No," Álvaro said. "Who in their right mind would be jealous over you?" He could feel — yet again — a slow flush spreading from his neck upwards. Fuck.

Raúl's grin was insufferable. "Don't worry," he said. "That was years ago."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Álvaro said, "and why the hell would I be worried." He pointedly wriggled away and fished his BlackBerry from his pocket. He should let his adoring populace know that he was still alive and that Madridistas didn't give up, ever.

"Álvaro," Raúl said, coaxingly.

Álvaro ignored him. Someone was tweeting about how he never answered them. He could reply, bring a little joy to the masses.

Raúl's arm curved over his back and a chin dug into his shoulder. "Álvaro," Raúl said in his ear. "Hey. You don't have anything to be insecure about. I promise."

Álvaro stiffened, then shot upright so fast he almost cracked his head against Raúl's jaw. "Excuse me? I am not — "

Then he saw that Raúl was grinning.

"Gotcha," Raúl said gleefully.

"Damn it," Álvaro swore as Raúl collapsed in a cackling heap. "Damn it, motherfucker, that doesn't count, that's just cheating."

"Because I was playing with your heart?" Raúl cooed, which made Álvaro's smack entirely justified. A brief scuffle ensued. Around the time Raúl's hand dug its way into Álvaro's back pocket and Álvaro's own got tangled up in Raúl's hair, Álvaro broke away to say, "Don't think I'm not going to make you pay for that. Some day when you least expect it."

Raúl peered at him. "Is that a nerd thing?"

"Fuck you," Álvaro said, which Raúl thought was hilarious, and then they were making out again, and overall, it hadn't been such a bad season.