Where the wind whispers

Title: Colors
Characters: Xavi/Andres Iniesta
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Xavi does some thinking about colors…
Words: 672
A/N: this fic is for my beloved holaascensor because she was with me when the evil plot bunnies came knocking. :D *smushes* I hope you guys like it :D



The numbers of a draw flashed once more on the screen of the television. Real Madrid had drawn with Almeria at one all. Xavi couldn’t help but feel more than a little pleased by the result. It was no secret he didn’t like Los Blancos, no loyal Catalan could force themselves to like them. But it wasn’t just Castilian versus Catalan that was the problem, it was white against blaugrana.

White was too bland, too clean. It was pristine and orderly, never creased wrinkled or frayed. It was spotless as fresh snow, empty like a field covered in it. It held no memories; it held no passion. It was plain and unrelenting, just wave after wave of solid color.

Not to say that the boys in Madrid were passionless; they were anything but. After all, you couldn’t have a champion without having some form of loyal passion burning behind the solid wall of white. And they were mathematically the best.

But Barcelona was gaining in numbers.

Barcelona had never lacked passion or color. The solid mass of burgundy mixed with the dark navy and wove together to create a pattern of devotion and loyalty. Few dared cross from rich colors to solid white, and those that did were foolish. Xavi loved the blaugrana, worshiped it, and wanted nothing to do with white. His heart bled two colors and he would never change it.

All of the boys of La Masía felt the same way. Though many of them would grow up to play for other teams, few—if any—would play in white. The ones that had risen through the ranks from young boys to grown men knew the cost of turning on your own. Loyalty would never be broken between their bonds and they wouldn’t dare risk losing their trust.

Xavi looked at Andres and smiled. They were as different as they were the same. He was older, wiser to how things could really be, and yet he was foolish compared to Andres. He was ‘safe’, never travelling past the comfort of his own bubble. Andres was shy, reserved, but he did manage to tempt himself to leave that comfort zone every once in a while. Xavi liked that about him.

Andres was not only navy and burgundy, he was also red and gold. The colors of Spain blazed proudly on his chest. He had lead them to victory; a beautiful ball sent into the net—his first after so many months—and they had become world champions. Thanks to Don Andres, they had won. He had been a hero that night, and almost every night after until La Liga had started.

Xavi leaned back in the locker room and watched his friends, dressed in bright red and gold, mull about preparing for the next match. Here, there wasn’t white or blaugrana, orange or blue, black or red. It was solid, unyielding red. It was Spain.

All the colors mixed together so that they were all equally represented under one banner, one flag, high above their heads. All of them together, for Spain.

Sometimes it was hard to forget the loyalties between teams, between their homes, but it had to be done. It may take longer than a few training sessions, but once on the pitch under the lights, with thousands of people chanting for them to win, it was impossible for them to not be together as one team functioning as one single unit.

Andres sat silently next to him, quiet as always, and nudged him lightly with his arm. Xavi looked over to see the small smile on his face.

“T’estimo.” Andres whispered.

Xavi looked around for a moment before he leaned over and stole a kiss from his lover. “T’estimo.”

When Andres smiled bashfully back at him, Xavi realized something. What did it matter white or any other color when he had Andre, his wonderful, beautiful Andres? Xavi pulled him into a hug, the urge to touch him was overwhelming, and closed his eyes. Nothing mattered but this.