Chapter Text
Ivan can speak Croatian, German, Spanish, and a touch of French, but not Portuguese—not even after hearing his fair share from Cicinho and Beto in his three years at Sevilla. But they're in Spain—where everyone speaks Spanish—and it was expected for Ivan to learn Spanish and not Portuguese, regardless of Spain and Portugal's shared border, or how many Portuguese footballers happen to play in their neighboring country. So in all fairness, it really shouldn't matter that Ivan can speak one language but not the other.
Portuguese had sounded like Spanish when Ivan couldn't speak Spanish, but now that he knows better, the differences couldn't be more apparent. Sure, some of the spellings are practically identical—with their mutual Latin roots, and all—but if Ivan were to compare Spanish to water, to rain, to the steady rise of summer tides, then Portuguese would be the earth, the wind, the friction between his palm and white, sandy beaches.
Portuguese is less flowing than Spanish, but not in an unpleasant way. It's organic and raw, scratchy against his throat, and just as tricky and inexplicable as the liquid sounds of Spanish.
Ivan tries, but nothing ever comes as naturally as he would've liked. And yes, languages can be unbelievably frustrating at times—when people speak too much, too quickly, and all the syllables link together that he can barely tell words apart, while his own responses stumble inelegantly against his stiff, foreign tongue. It's one of the worst feelings, being caught out and not knowing what to say, regardless of whether Ivan is facing a camera or a pair of insistent eyes. And he has to remind himself often not to feel weighed down, not to be surprised. After all, he is a fish out of water—a Croat in Spain—and there are just some things in this world he can never quite fully understand.
~~
Daniel can only speak Portuguese, despite his time spent at Reading and his loan spell at Limassol. And judging by his poor effort during Spanish lessons, Ivan doubts that Daniel had ever attempted to learn the languages of his former clubs.
Daniel gets by just fine, and it's in part due to the considerable degree of mutual intelligibility between Spanish and Portuguese, but Ivan knows that's not the only reason. The phenomenon has something to do with Daniel himself—the way he smiles with all his teeth, the openness of his gestures, the steady fixation of his eyes to any object of his attention—which combined somehow manages to transcend even the most basic necessity for language, so that everyone understands Daniel just fine no matter how often he smiles in lieu of speaking, or how half-assed his attempts are becoming, as he tries to pass off Portuguese as Spanish.
Daniel's first season on loan with Sevilla is Ivan's first season as captain, and it just so happens that they start off shaky—losing the opening match to Atletico, before drawing to Levante at home. Their third match is against Malaga away, and a goal from Kevin Gameiro just before halftime manages to cancel out the opponent's opener.
It's 1-1 when the whistle blows, and Ivan supposes this would be an appropriate time to lift some spirits. But despite his own work ethic and determination, he knows he is not the most charismatic of leaders—his expressions too passive, his Spanish too clumsy—and he supposes this all has to change somehow, now that he is captain and needs to think about the team in more ways than one.
He remembers lining up for a free kick just outside the penalty box and seeing Daniel out of the corner of his eye, a few yards too far into the opponent's half to his liking. He reaches for the defender's elbow just as they descend the steps to the tunnel.
Don't forget to stay in position, Ivan tries to explain to Daniel. As much as they need the second goal, they can't afford to be stretched in the back. And with the midfield all pushing forward, Malaga will be especially dangerous on the counter.
Daniel smiles and nods and hums noncommittally, and Ivan feels a twinge of frustration, wondering whether his message is getting through at all.
This is important, he insists. Should I repeat myself? Do you understand what I'm trying to say?
"Sim, meu capitão," Daniel smiles before taking Ivan's hand and brushing a feather-light kiss to the ridge of his knuckles. Ivan watches him bemusedly; it reminded him of knights swearing their loyalty to kings.
And Ivan understands that much, or at least he thinks he does at the moment, as Daniel lets go and disappears among the crowd of yellow shirts. He sees his teammates coalescing by the lockers, their coach's voice rising above the noise of the stadium crowd, and decides that perhaps, now is not the best time for overthinking.
~~
Losing to Real Madrid isn't exactly shocking, but losing 7-3 certainly does little for moral. The plane ride back to Seville is quiet, to say the least. Ivan finds a seat alone in the back of their designated rows and rests his temple against the coolness of the windowpane. The images of his missed penalty play repeatedly behind his closed eyelids, even though he knows it's useless to torment himself after scoring two goals and doing all he can for his team. After conceding seven, one more goal wouldn't have made much of a difference, but it still adds insult to injury. The team, the fans, they had been counting on him, and he had—in a way—let them down.
"Sorte."
Ivan doesn't know that that means, but the coarse ending at the tip of the tongue—a tche sound that reminded Ivan of earth and grape vines—suggested that this is not Spanish at all. And who else but Daniel would walk up to him and start speaking in Portuguese?
"¿Suerte?" Daniel tries again after he is met with the captain's characteristic blank stare. Spanish this time, and Ivan understands—luck.
Ivan laughs and explains that conceding seven goals and losing by a margin of four is hardly an issue of luck, but Daniel shakes his head, taking the empty seat beside his captain.
"Má sorte," he reverts back to Portuguese, and Ivan can only guess at what he means. Bad luck? Unlucky?
Daniel nods and points to Ivan. "Perdre." To lose. "Para estar no lado perdedor." To be on the losing side.
I'm unlucky to be on the losing side? Ivan pieces it together, and Daniel smiles in affirmation.
"Grande capitão." Daniel says, and the Croat doesn't even attempt to hide his surprise, that Daniel of all people is trying to make him feel better.
"Gracias," Ivan manages, feeling somewhat flustered and tongue-tied. He wants to say it's not about him, but about the team, and he wants to do everything he can to lead the team to victory, even if it's been an uphill battle ever since the beginning of the season. But he supposes he should be grateful—incredibly grateful—that someone like Daniel would consider him a good captain, even though the Portuguese has been here for only a few months, and Ivan certainly hasn't done much to warrant such faith.
There is so much Ivan wants to say, but he could find no words capable of bridging the language gap. And he doesn't realize he has been gaping until Daniel's easy smile falters a little, as the defender looks around sheepishly, perhaps feeling as though he has overstayed his welcome.
Daniel doesn't sit with Ivan for the rest of the flight, ducking back to his seat next to Diogo just as the flight attendants instruct everyone to fasten their seatbelts.
He wouldn't have minded if Daniel had decided to stay, but then again, it's a little to late to mention that now.
~~
A common language in a city of strangers can always bring people together, and Ivan supposes it's only natural for a Portuguese-speaking cluster to form within Sevilla, with new additions like Daniel and Diogo combining with more senior members Beto and Cicinho.
Ivan approaches them one morning during training, just as Daniel's sharp laughter reverberates across La Cuidad Deportiva. Daniel must've played a prank of some sort on Diogo, who looks rather miffed as he tackles the center back to the ground.
"Buenos días, Iván." Beto is the first to greet him, and the younger players halt in their ruckus upon acknowledging the Croat's presence. His Portuguese teammates are far from unfriendly, but it still doesn't stop Ivan from feeling out of place when it's just him and them.
Can I speak to Daniel in private? Ivan asks, and Daniel—who is lying on his back with Diogo pinning him from above—pinches together his brows.
Diogo rolls his eyes and says something in swift Portuguese. Daniel responds with a revealing ah, before shoving away the wing back and rising to his feet.
Their teammates gives them the space Ivan had requested, and the Croat feels a new wave of uncertainty now that Daniel is at eye level, watching him expectantly, remnants of laughter tugging at his lips.
I want you to only speak Spanish with the team from now on, Ivan says after a brief pause. You need to communicate effectively, and it's not enough to get by with just Portuguese. You're in Spain now. You need to speak Spanish like everyone else. This is important. Do you understand?
Daniel's smile fades, and he looks caught out and uncertain. Ivan wonders if he had sounded too harsh.
It's difficult, he insists, gentler this time. I want to understand you, but it's too difficult right now—without Spanish, with just Portuguese. I need you to take this seriously. Can you? Can you do that?
The silence seems to stretch infinitely, before finally, "Bien." And Daniel flashes his same, wide, charming smile, replying in careful albeit accented Spanish. "Sólo para ti." Just for you.
~~
Daniel stops talking to him.
Actually, that's not true. Daniel still greets Ivan every morning, and responds easily on the pitch, whenever Ivan tells him to come forward or pull back. He still celebrates with the team when they score, and if it happens to be Ivan's goal, Daniel would hug him for a second longer, or run his fingers through the hair at the nape of Ivan's neck.
But Daniel stops talking to him the way he used to—in his broken Spanish mixed with Portuguese—that usually took Ivan more mental effort than necessary just to understand half of what the defender had wanted to say. And Ivan wonders if he should be surprised at all by this outcome, after asking Daniel not to speak Portuguese—the only language he feels comfortable using—when he is with the rest of the team.
It's not an unreasonable thing to ask, Ivan blurts out to Beto during training one day. It's been almost five months since Daniel's transfer to Sevilla. He needs to learn Spanish sometime. He needs to communicate with the team.
Beto responds with a shrug. Languages in general, it's just hard for some people, and the limited length of Daniel's attention span certainly doesn't help his cause.
Ivan sighs, his breath visible before him, and he wishes he had heeded to the warning of his weather app and dug up his winter gear this morning. It's almost December, and Sevilla is finally gaining some traction in La Liga. If they win their next matches, they can overtake Villareal for seventh place, which isn't bad at all considering how awful their season beginning had been. And Ivan supposes he should be thankful that his only worry at the moment—as captain—is Daniel Carriço's inability to speak Spanish.
~~
"No, es irregular. La conjugación es diferente." Marko sounds rather impatient as he takes Daniel's Spanish workbook.
The team was given the day off, but the new signings still had Spanish lessons to attend to, and Ivan still had strategic planning with the coach and assistants. It's late afternoon, and Ivan is halfway to the parking lot before he spots Marko and Daniel leaning against the German's black Lamborghini—an incredibly fine-looking car, he has to admit.
"Yo recuerdo, tú recuerdas, él/ella recuerda…" Marko recites the conjugations with the exercised familiarity of a schoolboy, which Ivan remembers only too well from his first year at Seville.
"El resto es lo mismo." The rest is the same, Marko explains, and Ivan finds it incredibly strange how everyone seems to be better at Spanish than Daniel.
He didn't mean to eavesdrop for so long, but by the time he realizes, Marko is already driving away, leaving Daniel alone in the parking lot, looking rather confusedly at Ivan.
The Croat greets with a half-smile and a tentative wave. How is everything? How are the Spanish lessons?
Daniel shakes his head as he shoves his workbook into his bag. "No es divertido." It's not fun, he says in simple but perfect Spanish, and Ivan unfathomably feels a gush of pride.
Spanish is hard. Believe me, I know. I had to go through the same thing in the beginning, but it will get better with time. The more you use it, the more natural it will feel. The team will help. We can all help.
Ivan tries to speak slowly and clearly and watches on, practically mesmerized by the way Daniel breaks into his usual smile. Ivan wonders how can anyone smile with such little inhibition and effort.
So what lesson are you on? The Croat continues, privately hoping that the constant movement of his mouth can offer diversion from the redness of his cheeks. Irregular verbs? Direct, indirect pronouns? Questions?
"Pregunta," Daniel says—question—and Ivan remembers it being somewhat tricky with the optional subject-verb inversions, but it's not hard to avoid the usage in real life. He wouldn't be surprised either, if Portuguese shares this commonality with Spanish.
"¿Te gustaría ir a cenar?" Daniel asks, and Ivan thinks it's good—it's perfect—grammatically and pronunciation-wise.
Daniel laughs and shakes his head, saying, no, Ivan. "Conmigo." With me. "Cenar comigo." Have dinner with me. "Me gustaría eso." I would like that.
And Ivan looks at him for what feels like an eternity, before okay. Okay.
~~
Ivan doesn't remember his abandoned car until Daniel parks along a quiet street in a busy, dining district. But Daniel tells him not to worry and insists on dropping him off after dinner, so Ivan can hardly complain. They go to a restaurant along the river—Portuguese-owned and Daniel's favorite—and by then, it's already dark enough for the streetlights to shine, reflecting fantastically against the damp pavement and water surface.
They find seats in a dim corner of the restaurant, with the textured glass dividers just tall enough to hide their faces. Daniel orders wine right away and recommends the leitão assado—roast pork. Portugal is known for their pork dishes, and Ivan supposes he is feeling adventurous tonight.
The wine comes with the appetizers, and Daniel appears almost overly excited to try it. "Vino de Madeira." Madeira wine. "Es Bueno." It's good.
Ivan takes a small sip. It's not too sweet and not too bitter, and he can catch a hint of almond as the dark liquid washes over his tongue.
"¿Te gusta?" Do you like it? Daniel is leaning forward in his seat, smiling and watching Ivan in such a way that he wouldn't have said no, even if he hated the wine.
Ivan takes a few more gulps before he feels relaxed enough to converse.
~~
After only the second glass, Ivan begins to feel warmth across his face and neck. And he doesn't even realize how dizzy he is until he gets up to use the bathroom halfway through the meal. Daniel must be feeling it too, his Spanish slowly deteriorating into Portuguese as their conversation takes its natural coarse—from their teammates, to La Liga, to Croatia and Portugal, and finally to the World Cup.
You didn't put anything in my drink, did you? Ivan accuses in jest, because it's actually embarrassing how tipsy he is, even if holding liquor isn't one of his fortes.
Daniel laughs, and reads the alcohol content on the bottle. "¿Muy fuerte?" Too strong? "Perdona."
Well, he sure as hell doesn't seem sorry as he pours more wine into Ivan's glass, much to the Croat's objection.
"Termines. Eu tenho que dirigir." Daniel is speaking in full Portuguese, and he catches himself just in time for Ivan to wave a dismissive hand.
They're not with the team, so Ivan supposes it's okay as long as he can guess the meaning—finish the wine because Daniel has to drive. Seems like a fair request.
Teach me something in Portuguese, Ivan asks as he downs his third glass. He's not drunk yet, but he's feeling way too happy, and he will certainly regret how stupid he sounds once the alcohol flushes out of his system.
"Vamos foder a noite toda," Daniel responds with an impish grin, and Ivan repeats with immense concentration, but the syllables still stumble against his teeth and tongue.
What does that mean? He asks, and Daniel says let's be friends.
Ivan takes a moment to consider before declaring, no it doesn't. Daniel throws his head back and laughs, but doesn't object.
~~
Wasting good wine is a crime in any culture, so Ivan ends up drinking most of the bottle. It's pitch black by the time they step outside, but the sparsely spread streetlights offer enough guidance for retracing their steps. Daniel is humming a tune Ivan doesn't recognize, and they don't really talk much during the short walk to the car. Sometimes their shoulders would brush as Ivan finds the uneven, cobblestone pavement increasingly tricky beneath his feet, and Daniel would feel the need to steady him by the elbow, despite the Croat shrugging away and insisting that he's fine—perfectly fine.
Daniel opens the passenger-side door for Ivan, before sliding into the driver's seat himself. Ivan then snatches the keys from him just as the defender is about to start the engine.
"Ni hablar." No way. Daniel looks at him—eyes wide and expression serious—and Ivan finds it inexplicably funny. "Yo voy a conducir." I'm driving.
Daniel makes a grab for the keys, but Ivan lifts it over his head and out of reach. We should wait a little longer, he suggests, because Daniel had a bit to drink too, and they should make sure that he is completely sober before entering the road. The last thing Ivan wants is to kill, be killed, or end up in tomorrow's newspapers.
"Estoy bien." I'm fine. Daniel appears amused, and Ivan feels a twinge of frustration that the Portuguese isn't taking him seriously. Just because he's a little dazed and slurring his words doesn't mean his concerns are any less legitimate.
Wait, he all but orders, and Daniel whines as he reaches for the keys again. "Anda ya." Come on.
The Croat shifts to distance himself, pressing his back against the inside of the car door. He tries to nudge Daniel away with his right foot, but the defender anticipates well, slipping a hand beneath Ivan's knee and lifting his leg over the dashboard, which effectively traps him in an uncomfortable slumping position, the door handle digging against his spine.
Daniel leans forward again, and Ivan uses his free hand to push him away, gripping firmly at his jaw. He tells the defender to get off, but his requests ends with a hiccup and a giggle, and oh God, he would be so mortified if it weren't for the wine and Daniel's smile, making everything seem a but fuzzy but still alright.
A complaint forms at the tip of Ivan's tongue when Daniel takes his wrist and doesn't let go, but his mind completely goes blank when Daniel kisses his hand, right where his palm and wrist connect.
The defender loosens his grip, and Ivan's hand falls tamely to his side. Neither of them is smiling anymore, and the Croat watches on—breath uneven and heart pounding—as Daniel reaches for the zipper of his jacket and tugs. He separates the zipper teeth one by one, at an excruciatingly slow rate, all the while keeping a keen eye on Ivan, attentive for any hint of objection. And of course, there was none.
With the jacket undone, Daniel slips his hand inside, along Ivan's ribs, over his stomach, and across his chest—the touches experimental yet measured, solid and warm with only the thin fabric of the Croat's T-shirt separating them. Ivan wills himself to stay still, afraid that any movement would disrupt this delicate equilibrium. Daniel then pinches a nipple through the fabric, and Ivan practically moans.
The Portuguese is chewing uncertainly at his lower lip, stretching his neck to look over the windshield into the darkness beyond. And when he presumably finds no unwanted spectators, he returns his full attention to the Croat beneath him.
Daniel kisses him on the temple, cheek, along his jawline, before reaching the sensitive skin just below his ear. Daniel's stubble feels prickly against his neck, and Ivan bites back a moan as the Portuguese licks and nips at the shell of his ear. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the Croat knows this is a bad idea, but he just can't bring himself to focus, or even care about the consequences right now.
Ivan feels a hand sliding up his side, still not daring to go beneath his T-shirt. He whines, using his leg over the dashboard as leverage, as he pushes himself against the knee parting his thighs. He threads his fingers through Daniel's hair—the car keys jingling as he drops them against the seat—and shifts so that their lips are aligned. He can taste almonds and grapes and sugarcane in Daniel's breath.
He grinds against Daniel—once, twice—before the Portuguese grips his hips with both hands and forces him still, much to the Croat's frustration.
Ivan makes a pitiful sound and asks what's the matter, but Daniel doesn't respond, pulling away before the Croat can finish the question. Ivan hesitates, too sober now—too rational and afraid—to continue in the pursuit after such respite, so instead, he pushes himself up, straightens so that he is sitting properly in the passenger seat again.
Daniel turns the key and starts the engine, rubbing at his eyes with the palm of his hand. He looks suddenly exhausted.
"Perdão," he says in Portuguese, before catching himself and amending. "Perdona."
Sorry, sorry.