FOOTBALL RPF FIC: Castaway

[flywoman]

Title: Castaway
Rating: PG-13 for language
Pairing: Iker Casillas/Xavi Hernandez
Word Count: ~1400
Summary: The Spain NT's injured captains are marooned in Madrid for the friendly against Uruguay. At least they have each other.
Disclaimer: While inspired by real persons and events, this is a work of fiction. Gentle mockery and rampant speculation ahoy.

When Iker responded to the sharp knock by opening his door, Xavi nipped in under his arm, lugging a duffle bag behind him, and toed off his shoes in the entryway before setting off at a trot. "Come on! The match is about to start!"

"Nice to see you again too, Pelopo," Iker said loudly, shutting the door and padding after him. "Sorry I showed up so late that we were forced to rush... oh wait."

Xavi was already sprawled on the sofa when Iker reached the den, a beer in one hand, his damp hair sticking out in all directions and his eyes glued to the screen. "My flight was late. Damn, why isn't Del Bosque starting Villa? The man is going to develop a complex."

Iker sank down next to him and slid an arm around his shoulders; Xavi craned his neck to give him a quick peck on the cheek but then turned back to the television, muttering to himself. His open beer bottle, forgotten, sweated in his hand; Iker slipped it out of his fingers and set it on a coaster on the coffee table without Xavi even noticing.

Fifteen minutes in, their false nine kicked a fierce field goal, and Xavi whooped and leaped up off the sofa, then fell back, wincing. "¡Joder! I keep forgetting."

Iker draped his right hand over Xavi's inner thigh and squeezed very gently. "And here I thought that you were just faking a hamstring tear so you could come pay the invalid a visit."

"It's no big deal," Xavi said shortly, although he relaxed almost imperceptibly into Iker's touch and spread his legs a little. "Two weeks, tops."

Iker raised his eyebrows. "Milan?"

Xavi huffed out a breath and rubbed the back of his neck. "We'll see." He was trying to act nonchalant, but Iker could tell how much the admission cost him.

"Why the hell didn't Roura sub you out earlier?" Iker demanded. "You were already exhausted after the clásico. With Tito gone, it looks like the lunatics are running the asylum."

Xavi narrowed his eyes, the match momentarily forgotten. "Better that," he said, "than having it run by the biggest lunatic of them all."

The corner of Iker's mouth twitched upwards. "No comment."

"Did you and Ramos really issue Perez an ultimatum?" Xavi asked, lowering his voice conspiratorially. It sent an answering shiver down Iker's spine; he struggled to keep his mind on the matter at hand.

"Of course not."

"Nothing so crass, eh?" Xavi tapped the side of his nose. "He's not a stupid man. I'm sure that you didn't have to spell everything out for him." When Iker said nothing, he prodded, "I bet that Mourinho will be in England by summer."

"No bet," Iker said quickly.

"Oh ho! So you do know something," Xavi gloated. He bumped Iker insistently with his shoulder. "Spill."

"I know that the press has been reporting recent contact with Chelsea," Iker said with a shrug.

Xavi waved this away. "I read about that. But why would he want to get himself bogged down in that mess? No, no. I think Chelsea is just a red herring. Man City, maybe."

"That should prove interesting," Iker said, "when Guardiola takes over at United."

"If Mourinho lasts that long," Xavi replied darkly. "A three year contract, which of us would have expected that?" He folded his arms and turned his attention back to the television, then swore suddenly and slapped the sofa cushion. "Pedrito! Stop looking around for another striker and fucking shoot!" He rubbed irritably at his eyes. "That boy had better find his form and fast."

"Sure," Iker agreed. "Right after the return leg of the Copa."

A moment later, they both groaned as another attempt by Cesc was blocked. "You know what would be perfect," Xavi offered, "is if Puyi could score a goal for his 100th cap." Iker nodded and started stroking the other man's thigh, watching for a reaction. He did not get the one he had wanted. "Eh, cabrón, quit distracting me."

"Hmmm?" Iker murmured innocently, leaning over to nuzzle Xavi's neck.

His friend's eyelids fluttered shut helplessly, then snapped open again. "¡Joder! Can't you wait until halftime at least?" Iker started to pull away, indignant, before Xavi clasped the back of his neck, laughing, and kissed him firmly and sweetly. "I'm kidding! You know I'm kidding, right?" He reached down to take Iker's left hand lightly in his own, traced an invisible line from the tip of his finger across his calloused palm to his wrist. "I didn't even get to see the cast," he said, mostly to himself.

"That tickles," Iker complained, pulling his hand away. "Anyway, I'm going to be fine. I just need to take it easy for a while."

"Don't worry," Xavi said, patting his knee, "we won't do anything to risk straining it."

"That better not be a promise," Iker retorted, and Xavi laughed again.

"At least it's your left hand, tio, no danger of depriving yourself."

"I'm being deprived right now," Iker growled, just as the commentator's long, drawn-out "Goooooooooooooooool!" rang out and Xavi jerked as if he'd been slapped.

"Puta madre. Who was that?" They both sat forward, waited breathlessly for the replay. "Cristian Rodriguez? Damn. You totally could have saved that."

"Hey," Iker chided him. "Whatever happened to club loyalty?"

"Ask Victor," Xavi said, and Iker could see genuine hurt and confusion flare in his eyes.

He nudged the smaller man with his shoulder. "What's the story with Victor, anyway? I don't believe that bullshit about new clubs and cultures for a minute."

"He confided in me," Xavi confirmed, "but I swore eternal silence."

"Okay," Iker said, and slouched back as if he really didn't give a damn why Barcelona's keeper and co-captain might be leaving. He fought the urge to glance back at Xavi and counted without moving his lips.

Sure enough, it took less than ten seconds for Xavi to sidle closer and say, "It's all your fault, you know."

"What?" Iker sat up. "It's not like I'm keeping him from getting playing time at Barcelona."

Xavi rolled his eyes. "Obviously, but think about it: you're San Iker, hero of club and country, a favorite for this year's Balón de Oro for Christ's sake. Victor has been in your shadow all of his life. He doesn't understand how thankless a job goalkeeping is supposed to be for mere mortals."

"Have you considered," Iker said, "that maybe this decision had less to do with me and more with the fact that you, Puyi, and Leo all seemed like much higher priorities for renewal?"

"I'm sure that didn't help," Xavi acknowledged. "Whatever, he feels like the fans don't appreciate him, and he wants to start fresh somewhere else."

"And you failed to talk him out of it."

"Me? I was an understanding ear, a shoulder to cry on..." In response to Iker's knowing look, Xavi surrendered with a shrug. "Yeah, tried every argument in the book, but he wouldn't budge."

"Do you think he'll be sold this summer?" Iker asked.

"The club would be stupid not to," Xavi answered, which, as they both knew, was no answer at all. "Actually, we should have tried to get someone in the January transfer window. What does Real need with four fucking goalkeepers?" he demanded abruptly, his tone as accusing as if Iker had signed Diego Lopez himself.

Iker only shrugged uncomfortably; he felt bad for the canteranos, even after Adán's less than diplomatic remarks when he'd been used to put Iker on the bench.

"By the way, I've been meaning to ask you: did Xabi really pull his groin? I guess that's what he gets for being such an enormous dick during the clásico," Xavi gibed.

"Very funny. We've had terrible luck with injuries," Iker pointed out. "Not that it's an excuse, but we basically haven't had a full squad this whole season."

"And as club suffers, so does country. Today the Selección is deprived of both our services," Xavi said dramatically. "The valiant captain, his broken hand confined to a cast; his lame but loyal first mate, willing to be fitted for a peg leg if it means he can set sail at his side once again..."

"Luckily your mouth still seems to be working," Iker muttered.

Just then the halftime whistle blew and Xavi turned back to him, breaking into a leer. "You're about to find out just how lucky," he said, and Iker sucked in a breath as his friend reached for his fly.