yuletide ficlet: artistic differences (cris/kaka)
Due to timing of the new job I actually had to default on Yuletide (i.e. not because of procrastination, for a wonder XD;) which was disappointing as I loved my assignment and it would have been a nice opportunity to significantly expand my writing horizons. Since it was pretty much out of my hands, though, I felt fairly sanguine about everything until I read my gift fic, which was wonderful. pun wrote for A Suitable Boy Any Given Dream, the Firoz post-novel coda of my heart, and I was overcome with default guilt and had to go write a Madness ficlet in the last few hours before the collection closed. ._.
Thus the following, which is extremely silly. mimsicality gave me the original prompt following a viewing of the RM Christmas message videos and I pretty much did everything but sign my name to it -- the comments of "ALVARO" were a good indicator I was following customary patterns. XD So I'm guessing the recipient/everyone else had that figured out, but just in case, a belated Happy Boxing Day, yeats. :)
Artistic Differences
for yeats
implied Ronaldo/Kaka, ~900 words.
"Hey, superstar!"
Ricardo turned, already feeling his mouth stretching in a wide smile: a real smile, not a press smile. Cristiano was wearing the thousand-watt beam that always made Ricardo feel a pleasant warm glow inside and-
Ricardo stopped short.
Cristiano was already talking a mile a minute as, still beaming, he greeted Ricardo with a hug. (Pepe always insisted they were something he called "bro slaps", but Ricardo didn't see how those were any different from normal hugs.) They took their seats and Ricardo made himself pay attention to what Cristiano was saying - something about Manzano getting fired - but though he tried not to look his eyes kept creeping back of their own accord, out of almost morbid fascination.
It was too much for Cristiano not to notice. First he looked curious, then, glancing up at the ceiling, slightly concerned, then finally he looked around and frowned and said, "Is something wrong?"
Before Ricardo could stop himself, he blurted, "What did you do to your hair?"
Cristiano stared at him.
He felt the flush creeping from his neck upwards. "I. Ah." He cleared his throat. "It looks very nice."
Cristiano kept looking at him, with an expression equal parts confused and faintly wounded. "You don't like it?"
"It's very..." His gaze lingered, taking it all in again, just in case he'd missed something while he was trying not to stare. He hadn't. "Individual."
"It should be," Cristiano said, "it cost as much as my car."
"What?" Ricardo heard his own voice, which had shot into the upper registers, and tried to cover it with a cough. "I mean. What? That's not-"
"It was a joke!" Cristiano said. "Mostly."
"Oh," Ricardo said. "Yes. Right." He attempted to repair the damage and talked too quickly as a result. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize. That is - it's very - very, um, stylish, and I'm sure you got your money's worth, and-"
"It's okay," Cristiano said, mouth set. "Let's talk about something else, okay?"
They did, but the guilt didn't go away with the subject.
* * *
Ricardo stopped short - again - in the the entrance to the dressing room.
"Oh my - goodness," he said.
Álvaro, whose locker was next to the door, snickered. "I know," he said, in a voice of completely false understanding. "I know."
"What... what did he... what happened?"
"Someone gave him an honest opinion of his new hair and he went off the deep end trying to fix it." Álvaro gave a deep, satisfied sigh. "I should give her a medal. This is priceless."
Be nice, Ricardo should have said, but instead he frowned. "What do you mean, 'she'."
Álvaro gave him a pitying look. Oh, naive little Ricky. "It's his hair. Obviously it's a chick. You think anyone else's opinion about his precious hair would even penetrate?"
Ricardo had no idea what to say. Dimly, he was aware of the flush creeping back, up from the collar of his shirt. Thankfully Álvaro - simultaneously texting, changing, and talking to Raúl Albiol - didn't notice.
Cristiano didn't look up until Ricardo joined him at the adjacent locker. "Hey," he said, faux casually, and then busied himself inspecting his boots.
"Good morning," Ricardo said. He began to assemble his kit, attempting with all his might not to glance sideways.
Silence.
"I, um, you got a new hairstyle," Ricardo said, when he couldn't take it any longer. "Already."
Cristiano shrugged. "Got bored. You know. International style icon, gotta keep up my game."
"Of course," Ricardo agreed, fairly sure he had no idea what Cristiano was saying.
"So," Cristiano said. He cleared his throat. "I mean, like. What do you think?"
"What do I...?" He should have been ready for this. Ricardo looked again, at the hair, and at Cristiano's expectant face, and at the hair - The Hair - again. Surely the Lord wouldn't hold another white lie against him. Another glance at Cristiano's expression made the words stick in his throat. Finally Ricardo gave a small self-depracating laugh and said, "I don't think I'm really a very good judge of style."
He could see Cristiano's face fall. Suddenly he was reaching for something to say, whatever it was that instinct told him would fix thing, the same reaction this sight always touched off in him.
"I mean," Ricardo said, and cleared his throat. He raised a hand and touched his own hair, with a slight self-consciousness that was not entirely feigned. "Do you think I should? Do something about mine?"
Cristiano's downcast face was wiped clean of everything except disbelief as he stared at Ricardo. "Are you for real?"
"I... am I?" Ricardo tried. "Maybe?"
"Didn't Armani assign you a stylist? And Adidas?"
Ricardo thought for a moment. "I think so?" Cristiano's face dimmed slightly so Ricardo said, "Maybe - maybe you could think about it and tell me what you think. Okay?" He looked Cristiano in the eye and said earnestly, "I trust your opinion."
The thousand-watt grin returned like a flash of lightning. "Deal," Cristiano said, and held out his right hand, expectant.
They'd practiced this. Ricardo concentrated. Clasp, shake, twist, release, fist bump over - or no, under - or no -
Ricardo began to laugh, helplessly. Cristiano made a tsking sound and shook his head in mock disappointment. "I'm sorry," Ricardo said. "I think I might be hopeless."
Cristiano reached up and slid a hand through Ricardo's hair, a little too slow to be called a ruffle.
"It's okay," he said, and let go. "I like you how you are."
Thus the following, which is extremely silly. mimsicality gave me the original prompt following a viewing of the RM Christmas message videos and I pretty much did everything but sign my name to it -- the comments of "ALVARO" were a good indicator I was following customary patterns. XD So I'm guessing the recipient/everyone else had that figured out, but just in case, a belated Happy Boxing Day, yeats. :)
Artistic Differences
for yeats
implied Ronaldo/Kaka, ~900 words.
"Hey, superstar!"
Ricardo turned, already feeling his mouth stretching in a wide smile: a real smile, not a press smile. Cristiano was wearing the thousand-watt beam that always made Ricardo feel a pleasant warm glow inside and-
Ricardo stopped short.
Cristiano was already talking a mile a minute as, still beaming, he greeted Ricardo with a hug. (Pepe always insisted they were something he called "bro slaps", but Ricardo didn't see how those were any different from normal hugs.) They took their seats and Ricardo made himself pay attention to what Cristiano was saying - something about Manzano getting fired - but though he tried not to look his eyes kept creeping back of their own accord, out of almost morbid fascination.
It was too much for Cristiano not to notice. First he looked curious, then, glancing up at the ceiling, slightly concerned, then finally he looked around and frowned and said, "Is something wrong?"
Before Ricardo could stop himself, he blurted, "What did you do to your hair?"
Cristiano stared at him.
He felt the flush creeping from his neck upwards. "I. Ah." He cleared his throat. "It looks very nice."
Cristiano kept looking at him, with an expression equal parts confused and faintly wounded. "You don't like it?"
"It's very..." His gaze lingered, taking it all in again, just in case he'd missed something while he was trying not to stare. He hadn't. "Individual."
"It should be," Cristiano said, "it cost as much as my car."
"What?" Ricardo heard his own voice, which had shot into the upper registers, and tried to cover it with a cough. "I mean. What? That's not-"
"It was a joke!" Cristiano said. "Mostly."
"Oh," Ricardo said. "Yes. Right." He attempted to repair the damage and talked too quickly as a result. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize. That is - it's very - very, um, stylish, and I'm sure you got your money's worth, and-"
"It's okay," Cristiano said, mouth set. "Let's talk about something else, okay?"
They did, but the guilt didn't go away with the subject.
* * *
Ricardo stopped short - again - in the the entrance to the dressing room.
"Oh my - goodness," he said.
Álvaro, whose locker was next to the door, snickered. "I know," he said, in a voice of completely false understanding. "I know."
"What... what did he... what happened?"
"Someone gave him an honest opinion of his new hair and he went off the deep end trying to fix it." Álvaro gave a deep, satisfied sigh. "I should give her a medal. This is priceless."
Be nice, Ricardo should have said, but instead he frowned. "What do you mean, 'she'."
Álvaro gave him a pitying look. Oh, naive little Ricky. "It's his hair. Obviously it's a chick. You think anyone else's opinion about his precious hair would even penetrate?"
Ricardo had no idea what to say. Dimly, he was aware of the flush creeping back, up from the collar of his shirt. Thankfully Álvaro - simultaneously texting, changing, and talking to Raúl Albiol - didn't notice.
Cristiano didn't look up until Ricardo joined him at the adjacent locker. "Hey," he said, faux casually, and then busied himself inspecting his boots.
"Good morning," Ricardo said. He began to assemble his kit, attempting with all his might not to glance sideways.
Silence.
"I, um, you got a new hairstyle," Ricardo said, when he couldn't take it any longer. "Already."
Cristiano shrugged. "Got bored. You know. International style icon, gotta keep up my game."
"Of course," Ricardo agreed, fairly sure he had no idea what Cristiano was saying.
"So," Cristiano said. He cleared his throat. "I mean, like. What do you think?"
"What do I...?" He should have been ready for this. Ricardo looked again, at the hair, and at Cristiano's expectant face, and at the hair - The Hair - again. Surely the Lord wouldn't hold another white lie against him. Another glance at Cristiano's expression made the words stick in his throat. Finally Ricardo gave a small self-depracating laugh and said, "I don't think I'm really a very good judge of style."
He could see Cristiano's face fall. Suddenly he was reaching for something to say, whatever it was that instinct told him would fix thing, the same reaction this sight always touched off in him.
"I mean," Ricardo said, and cleared his throat. He raised a hand and touched his own hair, with a slight self-consciousness that was not entirely feigned. "Do you think I should? Do something about mine?"
Cristiano's downcast face was wiped clean of everything except disbelief as he stared at Ricardo. "Are you for real?"
"I... am I?" Ricardo tried. "Maybe?"
"Didn't Armani assign you a stylist? And Adidas?"
Ricardo thought for a moment. "I think so?" Cristiano's face dimmed slightly so Ricardo said, "Maybe - maybe you could think about it and tell me what you think. Okay?" He looked Cristiano in the eye and said earnestly, "I trust your opinion."
The thousand-watt grin returned like a flash of lightning. "Deal," Cristiano said, and held out his right hand, expectant.
They'd practiced this. Ricardo concentrated. Clasp, shake, twist, release, fist bump over - or no, under - or no -
Ricardo began to laugh, helplessly. Cristiano made a tsking sound and shook his head in mock disappointment. "I'm sorry," Ricardo said. "I think I might be hopeless."
Cristiano reached up and slid a hand through Ricardo's hair, a little too slow to be called a ruffle.
"It's okay," he said, and let go. "I like you how you are."