FOOTBALL RPF FIC: come back (i'll be here)
May. 2nd, 2013 01:25 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
flywomanTitle: come back (i'll be here)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1392
Pairing: Iker Casillas/Sergio Ramos UST, Iker Casillas/Xavi Hernandez
Disclaimer: While inspired by real persons and events, this is a work of fiction.
Summary: In which Iker Casillas tries to repair the wreckage after two matches that he didn't even play.
Author's Note: Catharsis fic set during the 2013 Champions League semifinals.
It wouldn't have hurt half so much if he hadn't allowed himself to hope, at least for those last ten minutes, that victory was possible.
His ass sore and his resentment unbounded after yet another forty-five-plus helpless minutes on the bench, Iker hauled himself up and strode across the pitch, his pitch, to console his vice-captain. Sergio, who had looked so elated just moments ago after smashing their second goal into the back of the net, had clearly come crashing down to earth much harder than he. His teeth were bared in an ugly grimace of disbelief in his reddened, unshaven face, and he had yanked up his grass-stained shirt in anguish, knuckles white, revealing both his taut abs and the stark black words blurring over his ribs as Iker blinked against his own tears.
It wasn't fair. Sergio had been tireless, loyal, unfailingly optimistic, a pillar of strength for their struggling team both on and off the pitch. He didn't deserve having his big chance at captaincy in the CL end like this. Iker tried to tell him, folding his arms around his friend. "You did everything. I'm so proud of you. We came so close."
But Iker's efforts couldn't calm him; Sergio's face crumpled, and his eyes watered as he wrapped a hand weakly around his captain's waist. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. That header, I could have-"
"Hush," Iker soothed, "hush," and when Sergio's knees collapsed under him, he bent over to hold him as he sank onto the grass, still cradling his neck and whispering comforting nonsense as he sobbed. Sergio smelled like fresh sweat and sunlight and whatever crazy expensive conditioner he used, even now that his trademark mane had been shorn, and when Iker kissed his cheek, he could taste the bitterness beneath the salt.
At least Sergio was crying more quietly now, although Iker was the last man on earth to hold this raw display of disappointment against him. His own teammates had seen the same reactions from him more times than he cared to recall, and he just hoped that the younger man wouldn't be embarrassed by his actions afterwards.
A shadow fell over them, prompting Iker to glance up. Marcelo had ambled over, his characteristic cheer dimmed but not completely quenched. There was no hint of reproach in his tone as he thrust his hand within the circle of Iker's arm to pat Sergio on the back: "Bad luck, man."
Just then, "Iker," Sergio hiccupped in his ear, "can you come over tonight?"
Iker froze. He was suddenly and acutely aware of the hard-on in his shorts where he was just brushing against Sergio's shoulder. He released Sergio's neck and backed away, trying not to do it too quickly, catching Marcelo's knowing look.
It crossed his mind that Sergio deserved this, would be so grateful for it, and so beautiful before and after, all long golden limbs and liquid eyes, but, "I can't," he said through gritted teeth. "You know I can't." He squeezed Sergio's shoulder one last time, gave Marcelo a brief hug, and strode away.
***
Xavi was unusually clingy the following night, not that Iker could blame him. Even long after they'd both come, Xavi crying his name, Iker feeling simultaneously filled up and emptied out, almost overwhelmed by the intensity of the emotions their lovemaking had released, they lay curled together, holding onto each other like life rafts in a rough sea.
The quiet, of course, didn't last for very long.
"Saw you on tv last night," Xavi mumbled against his chest.
"I would have been shocked if you hadn't," Iker answered. He felt sleepy and heartsore and distantly resentful at the rapid realization that Xavi intended to pick a fight. "You aren't going to gloat and ruin perfectly good consolation sex, are you?"
"Don't be ridiculous," Xavi huffed, releasing Iker's waist and raising himself up on his elbow. "I don't want to see an all-German final any more than you do. Anyway, that's not why I brought it up."
"Why, then?" Iker asked, even knowing perfectly well that he wasn't going to like the answer.
"I saw you with Sergio," Xavi said, looking him right in the eye.
Iker sighed, rolled over, scrubbed at his face. "Cariño. Please. Can we not do this again."
"Do what again, cuddle with our handsome young teammates and pop a boner on international television?" Even though he was facing away from him, Iker could imagine Xavi's hurt expression, the way he drew his brows together and chewed at his lower lip when he was agitated. "Too late."
He groaned. "Could you really see that?" A stupid question. Xavi saw everything.
"Did you sleep with him?" Xavi's voice was suddenly very small, and Iker could feel him tense, bracing himself for the answer.
"No. No, of course not." Iker hoped that the force he'd put into his words would be enough to satisfy Xavi, to reassure him that Iker was his and his alone, now and always.
He should know better by now.
"I believe you." Xavi paused. "But you wanted to, didn't you?"
Iker had a sudden uncomfortable flashback to Sergio smiling up at him, back when he was still raw-boned and slender, with far fewer tattoos. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "No. Yes. What do you want me to say here?"
He flipped back over on impulse. Xavi was watching him with a guarded expression. The lines around his mouth and eyes stood out more than usual against the harsh light of the bedside lamp, and his skin had a greyish tinge that Iker didn't like at all. He looked every one of his thirty-three years and then some, although Iker knew that was the last thing he'd want to hear.
Iker took Xavi by the hand and was relieved when Xavi let him, fingers tightening on his. "Pelopo," he said. "This week has been..." He took a deep breath. "You're not the only one who's hurting here."
For once the other man said nothing, just looked at him with steady dark eyes. Iker continued, "Do you want to fight? Because I can do that. If that's what you need right now."
Now Xavi started speaking, but not really looking at Iker anymore. "You know last week when Jordi threw the ball in Robben's face? I was so angry. That was worse than the four goals. It was the fact that they... that they made us forget ourselves. And today was even worse." Xavi shook his head, chin trembling just a little. "What's happening to us?"
"It'll be okay," Iker said, wondering whether he himself believed this. "You've had some bad luck, that's all. No manager for months, half your defense out injured..." He nudged Xavi encouragingly with his elbow. "At least you've practically got the League title sewn up."
"Only because Real sucked so much in the first half of the season," Xavi retorted, then glanced at him apologetically. "No offense."
"None taken," Iker said. "I think."
"Maybe the pundits are right," Xavi told him somberly. "Maybe the glory days of Spain are over."
"I don't believe that." Iker reached for the back of his head, pulled him forward to plant a kiss on the unruly curls. "But we had them together, either way." Xavi sagged gratefully against him, stretched out again and buried his face between his neck and shoulder.
"Oh captain my captain," he murmured, and Iker could hear the mingled amusement and admiration in his voice. "You are the world's biggest sap."
"Just doing my part to raise the morale of the troops," Iker said in a falsely hearty voice, reaching down to pinch Xavi's shapely ass.
"You're raising something all right," Xavi replied, breaking into a grin, and slid forward suggestively so that Iker could feel him hardening again against his hip.
"What, abuelo, already?" Iker demanded, feigning astonishment. He caught his breath as a calloused big toe traced a careful line up his calf to his inner thigh and higher.
"This kind of comeback," Xavi said, affecting the pompous, melodramatic tone of a radio sportcaster, "is only possible with your support."
"Count me in," Iker chuckled, the previous day's disappointments draining away as he held his dearest friend in his arms, and whatever Xavi would have said next was stopped by his quick kiss.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1392
Pairing: Iker Casillas/Sergio Ramos UST, Iker Casillas/Xavi Hernandez
Disclaimer: While inspired by real persons and events, this is a work of fiction.
Summary: In which Iker Casillas tries to repair the wreckage after two matches that he didn't even play.
Author's Note: Catharsis fic set during the 2013 Champions League semifinals.
It wouldn't have hurt half so much if he hadn't allowed himself to hope, at least for those last ten minutes, that victory was possible.
His ass sore and his resentment unbounded after yet another forty-five-plus helpless minutes on the bench, Iker hauled himself up and strode across the pitch, his pitch, to console his vice-captain. Sergio, who had looked so elated just moments ago after smashing their second goal into the back of the net, had clearly come crashing down to earth much harder than he. His teeth were bared in an ugly grimace of disbelief in his reddened, unshaven face, and he had yanked up his grass-stained shirt in anguish, knuckles white, revealing both his taut abs and the stark black words blurring over his ribs as Iker blinked against his own tears.
It wasn't fair. Sergio had been tireless, loyal, unfailingly optimistic, a pillar of strength for their struggling team both on and off the pitch. He didn't deserve having his big chance at captaincy in the CL end like this. Iker tried to tell him, folding his arms around his friend. "You did everything. I'm so proud of you. We came so close."
But Iker's efforts couldn't calm him; Sergio's face crumpled, and his eyes watered as he wrapped a hand weakly around his captain's waist. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. That header, I could have-"
"Hush," Iker soothed, "hush," and when Sergio's knees collapsed under him, he bent over to hold him as he sank onto the grass, still cradling his neck and whispering comforting nonsense as he sobbed. Sergio smelled like fresh sweat and sunlight and whatever crazy expensive conditioner he used, even now that his trademark mane had been shorn, and when Iker kissed his cheek, he could taste the bitterness beneath the salt.
At least Sergio was crying more quietly now, although Iker was the last man on earth to hold this raw display of disappointment against him. His own teammates had seen the same reactions from him more times than he cared to recall, and he just hoped that the younger man wouldn't be embarrassed by his actions afterwards.
A shadow fell over them, prompting Iker to glance up. Marcelo had ambled over, his characteristic cheer dimmed but not completely quenched. There was no hint of reproach in his tone as he thrust his hand within the circle of Iker's arm to pat Sergio on the back: "Bad luck, man."
Just then, "Iker," Sergio hiccupped in his ear, "can you come over tonight?"
Iker froze. He was suddenly and acutely aware of the hard-on in his shorts where he was just brushing against Sergio's shoulder. He released Sergio's neck and backed away, trying not to do it too quickly, catching Marcelo's knowing look.
It crossed his mind that Sergio deserved this, would be so grateful for it, and so beautiful before and after, all long golden limbs and liquid eyes, but, "I can't," he said through gritted teeth. "You know I can't." He squeezed Sergio's shoulder one last time, gave Marcelo a brief hug, and strode away.
***
Xavi was unusually clingy the following night, not that Iker could blame him. Even long after they'd both come, Xavi crying his name, Iker feeling simultaneously filled up and emptied out, almost overwhelmed by the intensity of the emotions their lovemaking had released, they lay curled together, holding onto each other like life rafts in a rough sea.
The quiet, of course, didn't last for very long.
"Saw you on tv last night," Xavi mumbled against his chest.
"I would have been shocked if you hadn't," Iker answered. He felt sleepy and heartsore and distantly resentful at the rapid realization that Xavi intended to pick a fight. "You aren't going to gloat and ruin perfectly good consolation sex, are you?"
"Don't be ridiculous," Xavi huffed, releasing Iker's waist and raising himself up on his elbow. "I don't want to see an all-German final any more than you do. Anyway, that's not why I brought it up."
"Why, then?" Iker asked, even knowing perfectly well that he wasn't going to like the answer.
"I saw you with Sergio," Xavi said, looking him right in the eye.
Iker sighed, rolled over, scrubbed at his face. "Cariño. Please. Can we not do this again."
"Do what again, cuddle with our handsome young teammates and pop a boner on international television?" Even though he was facing away from him, Iker could imagine Xavi's hurt expression, the way he drew his brows together and chewed at his lower lip when he was agitated. "Too late."
He groaned. "Could you really see that?" A stupid question. Xavi saw everything.
"Did you sleep with him?" Xavi's voice was suddenly very small, and Iker could feel him tense, bracing himself for the answer.
"No. No, of course not." Iker hoped that the force he'd put into his words would be enough to satisfy Xavi, to reassure him that Iker was his and his alone, now and always.
He should know better by now.
"I believe you." Xavi paused. "But you wanted to, didn't you?"
Iker had a sudden uncomfortable flashback to Sergio smiling up at him, back when he was still raw-boned and slender, with far fewer tattoos. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "No. Yes. What do you want me to say here?"
He flipped back over on impulse. Xavi was watching him with a guarded expression. The lines around his mouth and eyes stood out more than usual against the harsh light of the bedside lamp, and his skin had a greyish tinge that Iker didn't like at all. He looked every one of his thirty-three years and then some, although Iker knew that was the last thing he'd want to hear.
Iker took Xavi by the hand and was relieved when Xavi let him, fingers tightening on his. "Pelopo," he said. "This week has been..." He took a deep breath. "You're not the only one who's hurting here."
For once the other man said nothing, just looked at him with steady dark eyes. Iker continued, "Do you want to fight? Because I can do that. If that's what you need right now."
Now Xavi started speaking, but not really looking at Iker anymore. "You know last week when Jordi threw the ball in Robben's face? I was so angry. That was worse than the four goals. It was the fact that they... that they made us forget ourselves. And today was even worse." Xavi shook his head, chin trembling just a little. "What's happening to us?"
"It'll be okay," Iker said, wondering whether he himself believed this. "You've had some bad luck, that's all. No manager for months, half your defense out injured..." He nudged Xavi encouragingly with his elbow. "At least you've practically got the League title sewn up."
"Only because Real sucked so much in the first half of the season," Xavi retorted, then glanced at him apologetically. "No offense."
"None taken," Iker said. "I think."
"Maybe the pundits are right," Xavi told him somberly. "Maybe the glory days of Spain are over."
"I don't believe that." Iker reached for the back of his head, pulled him forward to plant a kiss on the unruly curls. "But we had them together, either way." Xavi sagged gratefully against him, stretched out again and buried his face between his neck and shoulder.
"Oh captain my captain," he murmured, and Iker could hear the mingled amusement and admiration in his voice. "You are the world's biggest sap."
"Just doing my part to raise the morale of the troops," Iker said in a falsely hearty voice, reaching down to pinch Xavi's shapely ass.
"You're raising something all right," Xavi replied, breaking into a grin, and slid forward suggestively so that Iker could feel him hardening again against his hip.
"What, abuelo, already?" Iker demanded, feigning astonishment. He caught his breath as a calloused big toe traced a careful line up his calf to his inner thigh and higher.
"This kind of comeback," Xavi said, affecting the pompous, melodramatic tone of a radio sportcaster, "is only possible with your support."
"Count me in," Iker chuckled, the previous day's disappointments draining away as he held his dearest friend in his arms, and whatever Xavi would have said next was stopped by his quick kiss.
