Chapter Text
nunca sé que decir (I never know what to say)
He should have noticed from the beginning. The way his world tilted harshly by a 180 degree the first time they met. There was something uncomfortable settling deep in his chest, something thin and piercing binding his ribs together tightly.
His hand slips reaching out to Ramos, and the defender sends him a confused glance but shrugs it off, jogging back into position.
Gerard should have noticed right from the beginning, who it was. But he only remembers wheezing, bracing himself on his knees as he struggles to find something to grasp and somewhere to ground himself. It wasn't supposed to hurt like this. The stories he's heard, the fantasy tales weaved into his mind of a perfect meeting, something out of the movies, crisp like a breath of fresh air, holding hands tentatively, eyes bright.
No, this was much different, but without a doubt the very same thing that ties them all together as lovers.
He looks back on it now, it's strikingly obvious. Ramos had even run back over, head thrown back slightly as a hand pushes through the sweaty strands falling across his face.
"Hey,” he calls breathlessly, “ were you trying to tell me something? Sorry, but you have to admit, trying to grab me in the middle of the match isn’t exactly the best time."
He flutters around Gerard, hands outstretched as if he was preparing for him to topple over. Gerard grimaces. Guess he looked really bad, and he didn't feel any much better than he looked. But he waves him away to turn the attention away from himself. Others were looking over now, amidst the game, and he didn't want to pull any of their focus.
That was their first meeting.
And it was the simplest. So simple he forgot about it.
...
Some years later, at 23, he plays another game, and carries out a questionable action.
The infamous sign with his hand stretched out wide to the spectators. Granted, he knew what he was doing when he waved at the crowd with his palm to the sky, flashing his long fingers wide across the stadium.
Five goals to none.
Don't ever forget it.
The jeers from one side were drowned out by cheers from the other side, and he was beyond elated, heart thumping along with the yells of the fans.
He doesn't remember anything above the high of an astounding win. He grabs Messi, grabs Puyol, raises his fists to the crowd who praise the badge he wears across his heart.
In the hallway along to the dressing room though, he sobers up when he sees Sergio standing there, leaning against the wall beneath a low light, chest rising and falling softly, breaths echoing along the length of the tunnel. The other players don't notice him at all, cheering and bickering all the way to the room.
Messi gives him a small pat on the shoulder and a smile, because he's Messi, and Gerard sees Sergio mutter something to him. He lingers behind, shifting on his feet. That same unsettling feeling of something unspoken edging its way to the surface.
He frowns, seeing Xavi poke his head around a corner, a tight smile across his face and a hand raised in an acknowledgement to Sergio, who smiles briefly. Xavi says something else to him, making Sergio shake his head before he shrugs and the door closes.
Gerard turns his head to the side, glancing at his side profile, the strong slope of his nose, the natural pout of his lips. He's staring at the ground, eyes blinking slowly.
A few months back in an interview for the national team he and Ramos had cultivated a somewhat hostile relationship which he understands, because they both love their clubs as much as they hate their rivals. But that should have just stayed on the pitch.
Playing for Spain was an honorable thing. But playing it among the Madrid players was like having an unremovable stick jammed up his ass.
'Tell him in Andalusian', what an A-grade petty bastard.
"Hey." His voice echoes loudly along the hallway and Gerard winces himself.
Sergio turns his head slowly to look at him. Expression hardening, he jerks his head back without saying a word. Rolling his eyes, the taller man steps over.
"Saw your little display earlier." His voice cuts sharply through the air, dripping with distaste when Gerard gets close enough.
"What?"
"Don't play dumb." He shakes his open palm mockingly, shoving it in Gerard's face. "Your lovely little gesture that's gonna fuck it all up. You know what you did."
Gerard bristles at the accusation. "What? You think I want to stir this up?"
"Yes." Sergio glares at him stonily and wow, the accusation is true, but it stings. "Because you're a fucking child that can't control his emotions for one moment to spare us all the trouble later."
Gerard runs a hand through his hair roughly. He grabs a fistful of the white jersey at Sergio's shoulder, jerking him back against the wall. It must hurt, he hears the thump of strong bone smacking against concrete, but the other man holds his gaze in his own unwavering one. "Hey, fuck you. We won, and I felt like celebrating what was so obviously an incredible win. Besides," he pauses, "I don't see how this affects you. They'll be coming at me, so you can just fuck right off back to your team."
He doesn't wait for Sergio to reply, waving off his offended stuttering as he pulls open the door, shutting it loudly in the Madrid captain's face.
He feels bitter. Bitter, angry, cursing Ramos to oblivion for ruining his good mood. Xavi's by the door, running a towel through his hair. He turns away from talking to Andrés to look at Gerard. He takes one look at his ruffled feathers and shakes his head. Piqué ignores him, stomping over to his place, starting to throw clothes out of his bag to change.
"You know..." he drops the shirt he had pulled out with a sigh, crossing his arms and spinning to face Xavi.
"He's not that bad."
"Yeah, tell me that when I forget that he didn't just accuse me of purposely making a scene, which I stress," he holds his hands out against his chest, "I will never. Forget."
Xavi chuckles and shuffles away, leaving Gerard to brood.
Later on in the showers, he's soaping up his hair in one of the stalls, mind pleasantly blank with the warm shower spray steaming up the room, water dripping down the back of his spine and over his eyelashes.
He listens to the pattering of water droplets on the floor, to his even breaths, until for a second they seem to disappear, like a fragrance sprayed from a perfume bottle slowly but surely diffusing until you can't smell it from where you spritzed it anymore. He stops, hands in his hair, shampoo foam falling into his eyes, and blinks.
The sounds come back immediately after, and he licks his lips, lifting his elbow to wipe away the soap stinging his eyes.
What the hell? Did he just disassociate from himself or something?
He shrugs it off, thinking he probably fell asleep standing for a second or so. Washing off the rest of the soap, he grabs a towel, wrapping it around his waist before heading back out.
...
They win the World Cup, and for that, everything seems to draw to a standstill. He even gives Ramos a hug if it counts for anything.
He scans the crowds, gives a little girl a football, drinks a lot, smiles a lot, and things feel alright.
...
Things certainly don't get easier even as he gains a few years in experience, and a few more numbers in goals.
Sergio hates him even more, so the feelings are mutual on both sides.
But that wasn't what was affecting him. Rolling his luggage over the cobbled pavement, he makes his way into the building, through the glass doors, greeting a few people lingering at the entrance for the Spanish concentration.
He's meeting the rest of the Barcelona members at the cafeteria, and he sends the group chat a text, telling them he's going to drop off his things in his room first.
He gets his keycard from the front desk, takes the lift up to the seventh floor. He takes the wrong turn on the first try, ending up having to make a roundabout the other way, the wheels of his luggage rolling softly on the carpet as he looks at the numbers stuck to the doors.
Finally, he gets to #22, and he swipes the card, pushing the door open.
Surprisingly, he's not alone. Well, it figures he'd have to share a room, it was on his part that that information had completely flown over his head.
There's two beds, one closer to the wall to the adjacent bathroom. The other bed, which was occupied, was nearer to the floor-to-ceiling windows, sunlight falling softly over the sheets.
It's by some cruel joke of fate playing him that he has fucking Sergio Ramos sitting on that bed, one knee tucked under his thigh, talking to Iker who was leaning against the window. Their conversation stopped short the moment he walked in, and then they were engaged in a weird, awkward competition of who could stare the other to death, excluding Iker of course, who stood bemused by the side.
Gerard breaks his gaze first, not sure if he should feel proud for not immediately punching him in the face. It would certainly have given him the satisfaction if nothing else. He averts his gaze down, drawing his luggage up, parking it by the wall.
He can feel Sergio and Iker eyeing him, and it makes his spine give an uncomfortable tingle. Silent communication was the worst, and those two could do it in the most infuriating way. He pointedly ignores them, back straightened out stiffly as he sets to removing his jacket, tossing it on the bed.
Then he looks at his things, at the bed, at the two in the other corner, the discomfort of being scrutinized increasing every second that passes. Sighing, he turns to them.
"Continue talking or whatever, I'm going down to the café." He waves, more a friendly gesture at Iker than Sergio, and turns to leave.
"Aren't you going to unpack?" Iker asks.
Gerard sighs internally. Iker!
"Cesc, Andrés and the rest are waiting for me, I'm late already."
Iker shrugs, pushing himself off the window glass. "It's fine, you unpack, I'll tell them for you. I wanna say hi to Xavi anyway." He gives Gerard one of those looks he cannot say no to, and when Gerard turns to look at him pitifully, Iker's face softens enough that he comes up and pats his chest lightly before slipping out the room.
That leaves him with Sergio. He stays stubbornly silent the whole time as he unzips his bags and lays out various items; chargers plugs, some socks.
Sergio stares at him the whole time, but he wasn't glaring, which was a step up. Gerard glances at him from time to time, side-eyeing him as he moves around the room, Sergio's gaze following him.
He chews on the inside of his cheeks, turning around to face the long wooden desk along the wall of the room. There's a mirror attached to the wall, and a line of sockets which he flicks one of the switches to charge up his cellphone. When he looks up, he catches Sergio's eyes in the reflection of the mirror.
His eyes are brown, that's the first thing he thinks of. Of all the times they clash together, he's always too caught up in the moment to realise this small, minor detail. It's a very nice brown, not so close to hazel but lingering around a warm, dark tinge like honey. They're a bit glazed over too, which he realises belatedly that means Sergio has zoned out.
Gerard sighs. So much for team unity, the guy is...wherever the hell he is now.
"Oi." He snaps his fingers at him.
Sergio blinks. "Huh?"
"I'm going down. For food." Sergio continues to stare at him, like he’s unsure if Gerard is speaking to him. "So..."
"Uh huh?"
"Are you going down?" He finishes impatiently.
"Yeah...? Oh!" He jumps up from the bed, finally, finally figuring out what Gerard's vocabulary couldn't do for him. "Yeah yeah let's go I'm starving."
Gerard holds the door out for him, waiting as Sergio slides his feet into some slippers before pulling the keycard out of its slot as he closes it behind them.
They take the lift in silence, standing at either corner, Sergio gazing at the floor and Gerard at the digital display of the lift levels. It stops at level 3, and a soft ding rings as the door opens. Gerard's squeezing himself through the doors before it even fully opens, speed walking over to where the other Barça players are gathered.
He doesn't even know of the breath he's been holding in until he reaches the table and he sighs loudly, slumping into the seat beside Cesc. His friend gives him a questioning smile but slides over a cup of tea to him anyway.
Iker's still hanging around, supporting himself by leaning against one of the chairs, chatting with Xavi and Andrés, and he looks up when he sees Gerard. "Oh you're here. Where's Sergio?"
Eyebrows shoot off multiple faces at the mention of the two of them together at all, not to mention alive, and Gerard shrugs. "Left him at the lift."
"Oh...so he's just standing there?" Iker says absently as his gaze trails.
Gerard follows his gaze and finds that Sergio really is indeed still standing at the lift. He's looking around, arms crossed, but he's not really looking at anything, just sort of randomly standing there.
"What's he doing?" He asks incredulously.
Iker shrugs, waving them goodbye as he heads over. Gerard sees Sergio's head turn when Iker calls him, sees him smile, sees them head over to another table and then promptly turns his back to them.
Later in the evening when the other players are retiring to bed for an early practice tomorrow morning, Gerard gets out of his seat, promising he'd go over to Cesc's room to play a few games soon. He's heading to the lift when someone calls his name.
"What?"
"Can we talk?" Sergio asks. His hands are shoved in his pocket and he’s chewing the inside of his cheeks.
The evening blue is settling to dusk, the dark gloom seeping over the skies. Sergio's half in the dark when he asks him. Some part of Gerard wants to say no because he's got himself a throbbing headache, he can't remember tasting his tea at all and he really wants to sleep.
But for some reason his tongue moves on its own and he's agreeing before he can stop himself.
Sergio leads him out to the pitch, and hey, it's a great time and place to murder him. Sergio can just stab him and dispose of his body. It's empty on the field and it's dark. Gerard eyes his hands, searching for a murder weapon.
But he doesn't have any, he just turns to Gerard and sighs like he's disappointed all the gods in the world.
"Look," he starts, "the world cup win was amazing."
"Yeah."
"And it'd be nice to get that feeling again."
Where was he going with this? A wind whips past them and Gerard shivers, thin t-shirt doing nothing to fend away the chill. Through gritted teeth he manages a, "so you want to win another world cup? Good for you."
"God, Gerard you never know when to shut your mouth do you?" He snaps, frowning. "Be serious, what I mean is that..." he trails off. He inches closer, but keeps his mouth firmly shut in case they just end up arguing on the pitch again.
Sergio crosses his arms protectively over himself, lips drawing into a pout, and it's strangely cute and Gerard wants to die from: the cold . "Look, I play for Real, you for Barcelona, but right now, right here, can we just try and get along? We're amazing players and I think we have a shot at the Euros if we work together."
Oh. Oh okay. Unexpected, but a pleasant one.
"Oh, ok."
Sergio visibly brightens, as much as the dark allows, and he smiles. Gerard can't remember a time Sergio Ramos smiled at him. It made something warm spread through him.
"Ok?"
"Yeah." He cautiously reaches out, fingers curling around Sergio's shoulder, then slides his arm over. Sergio melts into his side with a relieved sigh. He's like a furnace beside him and Gerard wonders just how much their rivalry had been bothering him. Had he wanted them to be friends?
“That was easy.” He says, Gerard nodding his agreement.
“I’m surprised. Don’t you hate me?”
“We have our differences.” Sergio shrugs. “But I never hated you. Although if you kept some of your smarter opinions to yourself, we’d be on even better terms.”
Gerard deigns to reply but he doesn’t disagree either.
"C'mon let's go back, it's really cold out here."
...
Sergio passes him the ball during their practice match, and it feels like a win, even if he didn't score.
And later, it doesn't even matter because they win the Euros that year too.
...