[fic] football slash - "if we can aim for the stars"
Title: If we can aim for the stars
Pairing: Cristiano Ronaldo/Fábio Coentrão
Rating: PG
Genre: Just a little bit slashy, gen
Word Count: 2,017
Beta: sparksfly7. Thanks a lot! <3
Disclaimer: as real as a pot of gold by the end of the rainbow
Timeframe: Euro 2012, night before the semifinal against Spain.
Summary: "- Until we step into that pitch, no game is lost - Fábio says, believing in their victory, though he’s trying to convince himself of what he’s saying too. He feels relieved when he says those comforting words to Cristiano, but at the same time they hurt in the back of his throat. - We’ll go through. And you’ll score."
A/N: The interview Cristiano hears on TV with VdB is from here. I edited it a little, I hope no one minds. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the reading!
Cristiano goes to the room that had been assigned to him almost immediately after dinner, in the new hotel they’re staying in Donetsk. It’s the first time he’s been there on national team duty and although he would enjoy spending some more time in the city, which has been as desolate and calm as always, than in the hotel, he knows that there’s no time to lose and that every minute should be spent training his hardest. He’s almost sure he won’t be able to play his game - it’d been that way two years ago in South Africa - but he still wants to be of some avail to his team. After all, a captain must set the example.
He’s not surprised when he opens the door and sees the room illuminated only by the TV screen’s mesmerizing lights and colours and a lump lying on one of the beds, one arm falling out carelessly. A soft snore is heard and he’s sure Fábio is already asleep (when isn’t he sleeping, Cristiano wonders).
He sits on the other bed and changes the channel instantaneously - the room is dark for a split second and in the next minute images of Vicente del Bosque are filling up the TV screen. He sighs, resigned, but decides to listen to what the Spanish coach has to say.
- “ We understand the importance of this match, one of the most important in our lives. It is clear that a lot of talk now is about Ronaldo - Cristiano himself can’t help but smirk bitterly, already imagining what is about to come. - He is a great football player, who also plays in Spain. We will do our best to stop him. We know the style of Cristiano Ronaldo and know how to stop him. This is nothing new - it is important not only to know it, but also to be able to implement it on the field.”
Cristiano is a bit taken aback - it’s the first time he’s received such compliments from an opposite team like Spain, but at the same time he’s scared - Del Bosque himself said they knew how to stop him. Perhaps that’s how it will be, he muses, resignation written all over his face. He lowers the volume of the TV but doesn’t change the channel. Cristiano feels a tug at his shirt and he looks down to see what it is. Fábio has woken up and is giving him the sleepiest of looks, one hand still hanging outside the bed and the other tugging at his shirt.
- Good morning - Cristiano grins.
- More like goodnight - Fábio says, rubbing his drowsy eyes with both of his hands. He gets up and sits, back leaning against the wall at the head of the bed. - What time is it?
- Ten thirty - Cristiano answers. It was just a matter of time till Fábio noticed the Spanish coach talking on TV.
- Why are you listening to him? - he asks, stifling a yawn. - I really need to sleep.
- I don’t know, it just popped up - Cristiano shrugs, and then beams - He complimented me! He said I’m great. And what are you talking about? You just took a nap.
- I know - Fábio concurs, trying to sound as awake as possible. - But I need another one. Gotta be fresh for tomorrow.
Cristiano looks at him with a pout, waiting for Fábio to say something he might have forgotten. Fábio raises an eyebrow at him. - What?
- Aren’t I great? - he asks, pretending to be hurt. Fábio smiles, resigned, like he’s dealing with a six-year-old (and sometimes he really is).
- Yes, Cris, you are great indeed.
Cristiano wants to say something like ‘I know, it’s not like I need you to tell me!’ but he doesn’t because at the moment he’s too busy noticing how the blond colour of Fábio’s hair changes with the dim light coming from the screen and how there’s barely no white in his dark brown eyes. He tries not to stare for too long, but he can’t help it, and the next thing he knows Fábio is staring back at him with the same intensity.
- What… What are you looking at? - he asks slowly, finding himself unable to look away, raising an eyebrow at Cristiano. He blinks once and then looks away, and before he’s facing the window completely he notices the faintest of blushes spreading across Fábio’s cheeks. (Or perhaps it’s just the TV’s light, and he’s seeing things).
He turns his head to the screen and watches as the Spanish coach keeps talking about his predictions for tomorrow’s match, but he’s not really paying attention. It’s not the first time that this has happened, and he’s feeling nervous… It must be because of the game.
- How about tomorrow? - Fábio asks out of the blue, shifts in his place, facing Cristiano with a hand supporting his head.
- We’ll win - Cristiano grins, a mischievous, confident grin that hurts his cheeks, and he’s desperately trying to believe his own words because it is Spain who they’ll be facing, and they’re even better than Germany and Germany beat Portugal, so all he can do is have faith in his teammates and himself, like all those other times. He doesn’t understand how quickly the awkwardness between them dissipated (not that he wants to; he’s very glad it did - but, at the same time…).
- I like to believe in that too, you know - Fábio pauses and looks at the ceiling, averting his gaze from Cristiano, who is toying with a sock. - But I guess it’s alright. It’s not like we haven’t defeated them before…
But they’re Spain, World and European champions, and they too have defeated Portugal before. It’s not like they’re hopeless because Bento really is an excellent coach and has tested them and made them believe in themselves, and they couldn’t be more thankful for that, but that feeling, that feeling that Fábio can’t quite decipher because it’s the first time he’s feeling it, still holds him back. Nervousness always strikes before a match like this, a semi-final - a fucking semi-final - and he can’t really believe that he’s there, that he’s gotten this far, that his dream is so near he can almost reach it with his fingertips, and he’s sure Cristiano thinks and feels the same way (or almost the same).
- Until we step into that pitch, no game is lost - Fábio says, believing in their victory, though he’s trying to convince himself of what he’s saying too. He feels relieved when he says those comforting words to Cristiano, but at the same time they hurt in the back of his throat. - We’ll go through. And you’ll score.
- Who, me? Nah - Cristiano says bitterly, a hint of resignation in his voice. - They got me all figured out… Iker, Xabi, Sergio, Álvaro… they know what I can and can’t do. At times like these, all I can regret is playing in the same team as them.
Fábio doesn’t know what to say because he too plays in that team and can’t disagree with what Cristiano said, but even then, they still have a chance - he knows that until the final whistle is heard, he and Cristiano and Portugal have as a good a chance of winning as their Spanish teammates. They too are part of that team and are aware of the Spaniards’ flaws, and he thinks if that was the problem they’d really be screwed. But it’s not, and he knows it - it is and has always been about teams, not parts of them - and their national team has evolved so much since the arrival of Bento, not like a bunch of forced to be together but like a group of friends who help each other, that he still can’t fully believe the things they are capable of. Bento might be a bit of a strict person, but so far all that he’s done is excellent, so there is nothing to complain about.
- Cris - he calls, looking at him with sleepy eyes. - This is a national team, not parts of it; believe in what we can all do, ok?
And he does, Cristiano does believe in all their quality as a team, but that’s what he’s done all the other times - and he still hasn’t offered his country a fucking single trophy. Was believing worth it, after all? Greece, Germany, and then Germany again. Both had sent them home in the previous years, and he couldn’t - would never - stop blaming himself for it. He could have scored. The ball had been right in front of him but - either he hit it with too much strength or in the wrong direction - and it just hadn’t met the back of the net. All those years ago he would shrug it off and think “there will be another time” and even his Captain would say “Don’t worry, we’ll try in the next two years”. But his captain wasn’t there and he wasn’t 19 anymore, and there wouldn’t be many more chances ahead now.
He was growing old.
- Hey - Fábio says, putting a hand on his shoulder, as if he knows he needs to get those thoughts off his head. Cristiano looks at him, young and vivid and very, very sleepy, and Fábio manages to say between yawns: - I know you can score. This isn’t Cristiano Ronaldo and ten more jerks; it’s a team. It’s true we’ll need to give our very best when they’ll most likely only give half - but it doesn’t matter. Try to think of holding that cup, lifting it up to the sky.
Cristiano has thought that many times, too many times before, and he knows he will believe in this dream until the day he finally gets his hands on the cup and shows it to the world with pride filling his chest - “You all, look at us, we did it!” It’s the dream that has always been there, and it doesn’t matter how many times the cup is still denied to him, he will always believe in it.
- I do - he smiles, nostalgia and hope and something he can’t quite figure out sending a shiver down his spine. - I do that every day, from the first time I’ve played. - (from the first minute in the morning, from the moment I stepped up to the pitch till I leave it, since forever,) he’d like to add. It’s always been his dream to bring something to his country, something like this, something to be so fucking proud of, something so many had tried and failed to bring before.
- And that’s the spirit that will get us to the final, okay? - Fábio asks, puts it simply, like he always does, and though the pressure in his chest and shoulders is still there somehow Fábio helped lift it up a little.
- You really should sleep - Cristiano says, with a bit of a better mood.
- Not before you thank me for the pep talk - he swats Cristiano’s arm away as he tries to put it around his shoulders, which he manages to do, proceeding to rub his head with the other hand in a playful manner.
- Thanks for the talk - he says, and he doesn’t take his arm off of Fábio’s shoulder. - And sorry for keeping you up. - Cristiano hops off the bed to go to the bathroom and brush his teeth. Fábio follows him, still yawning.
- I’m still nervous about tomorrow’s match, though - Fábio says worriedly as he brushes his teeth.
- Don’t be, man - Cristiano says while he spits a mixture of water and mint toothpaste into the sink. - It will be okay - he looks into Fábio’s eyes reflected in the mirror and feels a shiver down his spine -, you’re great. Trust me, there’s no way they’ll score with you playing.
Fábio smiles and hurriedly splutters some water with toothpaste into the sink. Cristiano laughs and ruffles his hair again. - Off to bed now, champ. I can’t wait to kick some Spanish ass tomorrow.