Various football prompt fills
So I've done a bunch of short fills at the kinkmeme over the years, and after I got over first my shame and then my sense of being the newbie, the only reason I was submitting anon was because the rules require that. Which is a long way of saying, hey, here's some fills wot I did! Newest to oldest, so if you want to save yourselves, maybe don't read too far, har har.
Many, many thanks to all the people who already commented on any of these, you brought an added enjoyment to what I like to call the gen!fic game (66% win percentage) and I really appreciated your kind remarks.
Some slightly altered to fix grammar or canon errors.
Scenes from a Friendship
Eden Hazard/Cesar Azpilicueta
For this prompt
A/N: Alt-canon in which Hazard does not have a gf and a child...... :/ also let’s all agree that Cesar put as much effort into his French as he has his English and his year at Marseilles means he’s conversationally fluent, and let’s pretend they both live somewhere near the Thames or that I did any research for this at all. Basically this is not canon.
1.
"How do you speak better English than me?"
The first time they hook up, they have only been in England for a combined six weeks. Eden trains over the summer with Chelsea; Cesar arrives late, after the season has started.
They end up in Eden's hotel room, and Cesar orders room service.
"Seriously, how?"
Eden is sprawled back across his bed, speaking French. He's watching Cesar loiter in the dividing door.
"You actually paid attention in school or something?"
Cesar gives him a look. "Don't give me that shit," he says. "You're way more clever than me."
"What, just because I'm a better footballer?"
Cesar just laughs, louder than Eden's comment deserves, and goes from the doorway to two steps into the bedroom. Eden counts that as a come-on, and Cesar is still laughing a little when Eden stands up, walks across the bed and drops down to stand right in front of him. He's still smiling widely when Eden stands closer than a friend would, and his lips are still curved upwards when Eden kisses them.
Their room service arrives when Eden has got Cesar spread out on the bed, his knees bent and Eden between them.
"How do you say 'go away' in English?"
Cesar laughs, a little shaky. "If we ignore them," he says, "They'll leave it outside the room. What, you never done this hotel living before?"
Eden pushes up on one elbow and raises his eyebrows. Cesar grins, dropping his head back to the pillow. The room service knocks again, and Eden ignores them.
2.
“Am I really the best right back you've played with?”
“No, I just said that for the cameras.”
They’re in Cesar’s room. Eden’s found a place in London, but Cesar hasn’t. Someone else is still making his bed every day, still cleaning up after him, which makes Eden laugh when they’ve made a mess of the sheets, and, once, when they make a mess of the bathroom.
Cesar kicks his leg out to try to catch Eden but he’s too slow. Eden catches a hold of his ankle and doesn’t let go as he leans into the en-suite, snags some tissues from the dispenser and comes back to the bed.
He throws them on Cesar’s stomach and Cesar grins at him.
“You want to beat Anthony? Get some assists down you.”
“I have two,” Cesar protests. He watches himself as he cleans his skin and Eden does too.
“Bet you never did that with Anthony though,” Cesar says, catching Eden looking. Eden doesn’t really care, but he makes a show of it. “I’m having a shower,” he says, “And then I’m leaving.”
Cesar just laughs.
3.
“I thought you’d be more of a dick,” Cesar says. They’re not in bed, they’ve ventured out of their respective houses (because Cesar has his own flat now) and made their way to the river. This part of the Thames is quiet during the day, the locals all at work in the City. The small park at the bend in the river is deserted save for the crazy man feeding the birds, and the two young guys from the continent who still don’t know what they’re doing.
Eden knocks his hand against Cesar’s thigh. “Thanks man,” he says. “Appreciate it.”
Cesar tips his head back to look at Eden. He has both his arms balanced out along the top of the bench where they are sitting, and one of them is resting against Eden’s shoulder.
Eden doesn’t look, but he thinks Cesar’s probably laughing at him again. They laugh at each other a lot, he thinks that’s why they’re friends. Probably why they’re - the other stuff, too.
“Well you know,” Cesar says. “The papers and the blogs and all that. And whenever I played against you, you were so good -”
Eden looks at him then. “I was what?”
Cesar laughs and shakes his head. “No I’m not saying it twice - I just -”
“No sorry,” Eden sits up straighter and faces Cesar. “What was that?”
Cesar laughs harder. “I just meant - that usually people who are - you know - they’re pretty cocky. Pretty pleased with themselves.”
Eden knocks their knees together, because they’re in public. He knows his grin is smug, but he can’t help it.
“Thanks,” he says. “For recognising.”
Cesar kicks him then, and holds up his middle finger to Eden’s face. “I take it back,” he says. “You’re cocky as fuck.”
Eden just keeps their knees pressed together, and pretty soon they go back to his house.
Untitled Balon d'Or fill
Cristiano Ronaldo & Leo Messi
For this prompt: "Since Leo won the Ballon d'Or again, maybe Cris seeks him out due to jealousy and something happens. Or (preferably) they're in an established relationship, and maybe Leo gets a little drunk and Cris gets more than a little bitter."
A/N: The OP started it off, I added a few lines with the full intention of writing a heftier piece, and then I fell asleep and when I woke up I was bored of it.
"Congratulations," Cristiano says shortly. "You win again."
Leo doesn't reply, just takes another swallow of his drink. He regards Cristiano mildly over the rim, and then, after a long pause, says, "Thanks."
Cristiano gives a wry smile and looks away, over his shoulder. No one is near enough to eavesdrop, but plenty of people are watching.
When he turns back, he isn't smiling anymore and he looks tired around the eyes. Messi knows the feeling.
"Is Irina here tonight?"
Cristiano shakes his head. "She's working. Antonella? I guess she is busy eh?" And he's smiling properly then, at Leo, and Leo smiles back because he remembers who is waiting for him at home, and who is waiting for Cristiano.
"Yeah," he says, ducking his head because he smiles too soppily these days. "Something like that."
Three people who tried to cheer up Cris on the plane back and one who did
Cristiano Ronaldo & his teammates
For this super cute prompt: "Cristiano, Iker, Sergio, Marcelo and Xabi fly back to Madrid from Zurich after the BdO ceremony and they try to cheer up Cristiano for missing out by a not so small margin again."
1. Iker
Iker is laughing with a reporter on the red carpet before the ceremony. Cristiano likes seeing him like that, letting go of the fierceness and worry of his job. He likes it when he sees Iker without his captain face on.
Right now - Iker has his captain face on. They are waiting in the lounge to board, and Iker is hovering, firm resolve in his frown and conciliatory words only moments from his lips. Cristiano heads him off with a, "Hey, Sara!" He waves her over from the corner to which she had discreetly removed herself, and ignores Iker's sigh.
2. Sergio
They are on the plane and Cristiano is by the window, content with staring into the dark sky and steadfastly ignoring anyone who hovers near his seat. He can't, however, ignore the shout down the cabin of, "Hey, Iker, you voted for Sergio?"
Cristiano looks around. Across the aisle, Sergio has perked up. He is staring over where Iker is sat next to Sara, and he is grinning widely. "Did you really?" he says. "Did he really?"
Someone waves a phone above the seats. "Yeah," they say. "It's on the internet, see."
Cristiano buries the little voice in his head that says he's your captain-, and goes back to the window and the sky beyond.
3. Marcelo
Marcelo lets him be for forty minutes, and then he swings into the empty seat beside him with a huge sigh.
Cristiano gives it a minute, but Marcelo doesn't leave. He turns to face him. "Don't-" he starts.
"Yeah yeah," Marcelo says. "Don't bother, right?"
Cristiano shrugs.
Marcelo doesn't say anything more, but he scuffs an affectionate hand across Cristiano's hair and laughs when, like clockwork, Cristiano reaches up to fix it. Cristiano wishes he felt better.
4. Xabi
They're filing off the plane and Xabi is behind Cristiano. He hasn't said much to Cristiano all evening, which Cristiano appreciates.
Now, as he leans forward with a touch to Cristiano's back, all he says is, "Well, you had the better suit anyhow."
It is so unexpected that Cristiano bursts out laughing. The pilot at the door of the plane jumps and that makes him laugh even more.
"Thanks," he says when he has regained his composure. Xabi just smiles across at him, and Cristiano feels ready to face the crowd.
Untitled unintentionally crushing fill
Kun Aguero & Leo Messi
For this prompt: "Can an anon just have some cute Kun/Leo fic, please?"
This now sucks because of the actual news about Kun's life which makes me fucking miserable even though he's just some dude I have no connection to, but w/e.
An injured Kun is a bored Kun, and a bored Kun is a Kun who rings Leo every day and texts him more besides.
Hahaha! The papers say you'll transfer because you hate david! Hahahaha!
Haha leo also they say you'll transfer to city
Obviously I'd love to have you here baby
Leo has barely finished reading when his phone vibrates again and Kun's name appears on the screen.
"Did you just call me baby?"
Kun laughs, and it makes Leo smile. "I always call you baby, baby."
"You have only ever called me baby when you were drunk that one time," Leo says, sternly but fighting his smile, and Kun laughs again.
"So what is it Leo, you gonna come play with me?"
"Kun, all the money in the world could not persuade me to spend more time near you than international breaks already force me to."
"Asshole," Kun says, but he's still laughing. "See if I welcome you when you turn up, begging to be free of Villa. See if I give you a place to stay."
He pauses.
"There's no room at this inn, Messi."
Leo snorts. "Have you left the house today?"
"Leo no!" Kun sounds dismayed. "Why would I leave the house when I could lie on this sofa and call you?"
"Wow. Kun, get out of the house. Seriously. Don't you have physical therapy or something?"
Dismissive, Kun says, "Later." Leo can hear him shifting around on the sofa. "Benji's gonna be back from playgroup soon. He loves sofa games."
"You're a disaster," Leo says. "I just want you to know now that you are never going to babysit Thiago. And he doesn't get to be friends with Benji until he's old enough to know right from wrong."
"What," Kun draws the word out like he is appalled. "You are a terrible friend, Leo Messi. Terrible! Our kids are gonna get married, and Benji's going to be the best house-husband ever."
Leo gives up. He is no match for a bored, housebound Kun. He grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and heads to his own lounge to sit down. If Kun's starting on How Our Kids Are Going To Rule The World, Leo might as well make himself comfortable.
"Hang on," he says, settling down on the couch and moving a few cushions around. "Why is Thiago the breadwinner?"
Untitled hotel room shenanigans
Iker Muniain/Javi Martinez
For this prompt: "javi recently tweeted "tarde para olvidar de @IkerMuniain27 en la play. no había visto algo así nunca...el mobiliario del hotel destrozado!" which means basically "an afternoon to forget about @ikermuniain27. i had never seen anything like it before...all the hotel furniture is destroyed!" he also included a picture of iker playing fifa."
holy hell this is old. OLD. ALSO THIS FILL IS A LITTLE AWKWARD NOW as David Lopez moved to Brighton & Hove Albion and now he’s just some dude that my brother watches with his season ticket. AWK. disclaimer: I knew very little about these two when I wrote this.
David Lopez pauses before he knocks on the door of room 206. It's tempting to turn around, go back to his own room, pick up his book and continue to deliberately ignore the highly suspect and probably headache-inducing antics of his team. All afternoon he's been hearing the garbled yells and screams of outrage that accompany all FIFA tournaments. Finally there was one almighty crash, and since the subsequent bout of yelling everything has gone rather quiet. David can't decide if this is a good or a bad sign.
Against his better judgement, David knocks.
Behind the door he hears some muffled giggling, and then someone moving towards the door as if to check through the peephole.
"Javi?" David says. "Iker? Hello?" He squints back at the peephole.
"Come in," he hears, and then, "Don't come in! Don't -"
- then the sound of some large object hitting another large object, a loud squawk, and Javi's unmistakable high pitched laughter.
David leaves.
If David could have seen through the door, this is the sight that would have greeted him:
Iker, trousers off, doubled over and trapped in a headlock by Javi, who is currently trying not to step on the slightly bent lampshade that is rolling around under their feet. Iker yells a bit more as his head gets dangerously close to the corner of the desk.
"You're such a shit," he says, "Get off me."
Javi just keeps laughing.
"And stop fucking laughing you sound like a drunk peacock."
Javi laughs more, lets Iker go and bends down to pick up the various lamp parts. "You're a fucking liability," he says, "Jesus Christ. Can't take you anywhere."
Iker ignores him, leans on the desk and runs a hand through his hair, checks in the reflection of a framed photo on the wall that it's not all over the place. When Javi sees what he's doing he reaches out and again they're wrestling, Iker trying in vain to duck his friend's interfering hands.
Javi pushes him back against the desk and grabs at his wrists. Together they send a pile of papers scattering across the floor.
"I don't know why you didn't want to see David," Javi says, grinning all up in Iker's face. "Our friend David. You're so mean."
"Oh," says Iker, "Yeah, yeah I don't know why I didn't want him to come in and see both of us half naked and with the room half wrecked."
Javi laughs and looks Iker up and down.
"I don't know," he says. "I think he might have enjoyed it."
Iker rolls his eyes but laughs all the same. "You're such an idiot," he says, but he doesn't complain when Javi nudges a leg between his and presses up against him. "You're-" he says, and then forgets what he was saying. Javi kisses him, lets go of one of his wrists to run a hand up Iker's bare thigh as far as he can reach.
"Take some clothes off," Iker says, and Javi does.
Iker's pushing up against Javi, trying to get some friction, when Javi pulls back, grins at him, swipes a hand through his hair, and drops to his knees.
He looks up at Iker and Iker sort of pants incoherently back at him, which would be more embarrassing if Javi hadn't seen him like this more times than Iker can count.
"Wait," he manages, and Javi raises his eyebrows. "Are you sure David's gone?"
"Yeah, he is."
Iker pushes at Javi's head. "Wait," he says, "Check. What if someone just walks in on us."
Javi stares at him. "Are you serious?" But he gets up and goes over to the door, double checking that the corridor outside is empty. When he turns around, Iker is unashamedly staring.
Javi half skips back to Iker, overeager but not even caring. "No David," he says, "No anyone. Can I carry on?"
Iker takes a breath to steady himself, and Javi jumps in. "Or, sorry, did you want an audience?" He ducks down, fishes around in his trousers and pulls out his phone. "Cause we can definitely put this on twitter if you-"
The phone is smacked out of his hand and Iker grabs him and shuts up him up quite thoroughly.
"I'm just saying," Javi says, slightly out of breath, "If you want more followers..."
"Shut the fuck up," Iker says, tips his head back against the wall and reaches behind him for something to hold onto.
Javi bites at Iker's collarbone, and a picture frame comes crashing down.
They're dressed again the next time David comes knocking. Javi opens the door and to his credit, looks somewhat sheepish. There is a trail of destruction leading from the sofa to the desk to the bed, and David's not even sure what some of the detritus was originally.
"What on earth," he says, and steps gingerly into the room.
Iker pokes his head up from the sofa. "It's not what it looks like," he says.
David blinks. "What does it look like?"
Javi and Iker exchange glances. "Um," says Javi, "It wasn't us?"
David looks at him. "No wait," Javi says. "We were -"
"- trying to catch this bird that got in," Iker says.
"- playing football," says Javi.
"- fucking," Iker says, and Javi collapses in giggles.
"I don't know what you were doing," David says, "and to be honest I don't think I want to know, but you'd better come up with a better excuse than those."
"We were playing FIFA," Iker says, after a moment, "and things got a bit out of hand."
"Well," Iker says to Javi when they are on their own again that evening. "It's half the truth."
Untitled Rooney character study
Wayne Rooney (with reference to Cristiano Ronaldo)
For this prompt, although I only took the following into account: "him wanting to get away from man u is about him wanting to get away from being ~rooney"
This fic has an alternative title: "how I fixed some of my Rooney pain"
When Wayne Rooney left Everton, he saw the hurt and hatred on their faces. He saw the way the fans turned towards him, flung their arms and their words in his direction, and he understood. He saw himself in their position, shouting the same bitter vitriol at a different version of himself. But with an assurance that filled him from the inside out, he knew too that he was doing the right thing. The morals of football: he had grown up with them, he had learned them till he lived them. Stay at your boyhood club, but don't waste your career. Don't leave too soon, don't leave it too late. Don't switch to the rival team, don't leave your club in the lurch. Get paid but pay them back. Don't lose your head.
The day he entered the boss' office and asked for a transfer, Rooney lost his head. He knows he'll never forget the look on Ferguson's face.
Few players understand what it is like to have your manager as a father figure. Not in the way that Rooney understands it. At Everton he was just an awkward boy who put his head down and played football and got into fights sometimes because he had a quick temper. He had vague, dream-like ambitions: to be the best, to play for England, to win the World Cup. If you had asked him what it was that he wanted to achieve within the season, well. Wayne thinks he might have said to score more goals.
A year with Ferguson, and that was laughable. Rooney sees the young players now come into the team and for a week or two he sees those vague, silly ambitions still in their eyes. It's fair, he thinks. It's difficult to understand why you play the game until you've played under Ferguson. Until Manchester, with all its grandeur and history, all the expectation and the statistics piled on his shoulders before he had even adjusted to the accents, Rooney didn't really get it. Now, he treats the game like an artform. More than that: like an artform and a science combined. Like a religious text of which he has to find the most accurate interpretation.
At first he tries to keep a low profile, tries to follow the lead of the older players, and works on his temper. For a season or so it's fine, good, great even. Then it's like one morning he wakes up and realises that he may be getting somewhere, he may be understanding the game to an extent that he didn't even realise was there a year ago, but he's still a step behind when it comes to Cristiano Ronaldo.
Ronaldo, with all his gelled hair and silly tricks, Ronaldo who can run rings around Rooney in training but who praises him to high heaven in post match interviews. Ronaldo, who in awkwardly phrased English, comes up to Rooney two days after he is sent off for the first time and tells him how bad he feels. Not for the team, he doesn't feel bad for the team. He feels bad for letting Ferguson down.
Rooney had been surprised, like why are you telling me this? Go talk to one of the older players. I don't know Ferguson, I don't know how to fix this. Ronaldo had looked shamefaced. He came to Rooney, he said, because they both understood, they both knew what it was to be raised by Ferguson. So does Giggsy, Rooney had thought. So does Gary. But Ronaldo was right, he did understand. And he watched Ronaldo and though he wouldn't admit it he tried his hardest to learn from him too, even while he envied the other man his quick feet and even quicker finish. Always one step ahead.
Because here's how it was: Wayne Rooney never thought about being the best player in the world, but he thought about playing for the best team. He wanted to lift a cup for Manchester United, and for Ferguson. He wanted to lift a cup to say, look, look what we achieved, and he wanted to do it in the knowledge that he had played his part and that no one else could have played that part for him.
And then Ronaldo, well. He wins the Ballon D'Or, and shatters every preconceived notion Rooney had about his club versus individual loyalties. Maybe he didn't think about being the best player in the world because he couldn't be the best player in the world. Maybe his place in football was to play alongside the best player in the world.
And for a season this works. For a season they are the best partnership the Premier League has seen in years. They are beauty, in the curl of a ball as it drops into the penalty area, as Rooney catches it on that spot on his boot, the very spot that Ronaldo seems to have a telepathic connection to. Not once, not ever, do they look up. They don't catch each others' eyes. Rooney could play these games with his eyes closed. He could touch and score and celebrate with a blindfold and still he would know which way to turn to let Cristiano fly into his arms, to yell incomprehensibly in his ear of the perfection of their game, to deafen Rooney and yet still, still Rooney would play on. Take away all his senses and he would play by instinct alone.
When Ronaldo leaves it is strange, and empty. But when Rooney wakes up to the talk around him, he hears his name and his name only. Slowly the definition of himself, himself as a footballer and not as a partnership, it comes back. When Ferguson speaks to him Rooney feels like the child whose flashier, more talented brother has left home and now finally he's getting his place in the spotlight. And he's buggered if he's going to let this pass him by.
Ronaldo keeps in touch with him, texts and phone calls after their goals. He tries to match Rooney goal for goal but he can't do it and he laughs when Wayne takes the mick. Tells him to get his own Balon d’Or and then maybe they'll talk. It's all banter, but the old dreams start coming back for Rooney. The World Cup looms and he thinks, yeah, come on, I can lead them. I can do the impossible.
And when it's over, there's nothing left. There's no partnership, there's no solo glory. He doesn't read the papers, he knows what they're saying without looking, like every paper he walks past is covered with large angry blotches of the same bitterness, the same let down hurt that he remembers from the day he left Everton. He turns to Ferguson but he knows he's too old to expect the answers to be spread out before him like they were when he was eighteen.
It's no good, he thinks. He can't do this on his own. Berbatov stands in the penalty area and with his head down Rooney can almost feel the force of will that the striker sends his way, but the instinct isn't there anymore and the ball goes into the stands. Rooney doesn't care, some days.
The day he enters the boss' office and asks for a transfer, Rooney feels like he has no option left.
He watches all the Madrid matches, watches Ronaldo's movements and dreams about them at night, can tell his feet are twitching under the sheets, moving to be in the right spot, to catch the ball as it curls into him.
They talk less now but the understanding is still there. Rooney's welcome at Madrid, Ronaldo tells him. There's space for someone who gets the artistry, the study. Rooney shakes his head, but later he thinks: maybe.
Five days go by and the papers are even angrier, the air even blacker around him. Five days go by and he goes back to Ferguson. His hands are shaking that day when he sits down and tells him he doesn't know what to do. Rooney hates himself for saying that, for admitting that weakness. That isn't what Ferguson taught him, this isn't how he brought him up. He was so sure of himself, of his football.
If he was at Madrid, he could be again.
To define oneself as a footballer, Ferguson had told Rooney, back when he was young and stupid and headstrong with ambitions that he couldn't tie down, is to be the best you can be. To define your football. To define your game.
Rooney is certainly still young, and stupid, but when Ferguson repeats this to him in his office after Wayne has handed in a transfer request, Rooney's not quite so young that he can't understand. It may have taken seven years and endless attempts at self definition, and it may take many more, but at least he can look at the man who raised him, Rooney, the footballer, and he gets it.
He tells Ronaldo that he spoke to Ferguson, and that is all that needs to be said. They understand.
"I'm still waiting," Ronaldo says. "Where's that Golden Ball?"
OKAY COOL THAT'S IT.
Many, many thanks to all the people who already commented on any of these, you brought an added enjoyment to what I like to call the gen!fic game (66% win percentage) and I really appreciated your kind remarks.
Some slightly altered to fix grammar or canon errors.
Scenes from a Friendship
Eden Hazard/Cesar Azpilicueta
For this prompt
A/N: Alt-canon in which Hazard does not have a gf and a child...... :/ also let’s all agree that Cesar put as much effort into his French as he has his English and his year at Marseilles means he’s conversationally fluent, and let’s pretend they both live somewhere near the Thames or that I did any research for this at all. Basically this is not canon.
1.
"How do you speak better English than me?"
The first time they hook up, they have only been in England for a combined six weeks. Eden trains over the summer with Chelsea; Cesar arrives late, after the season has started.
They end up in Eden's hotel room, and Cesar orders room service.
"Seriously, how?"
Eden is sprawled back across his bed, speaking French. He's watching Cesar loiter in the dividing door.
"You actually paid attention in school or something?"
Cesar gives him a look. "Don't give me that shit," he says. "You're way more clever than me."
"What, just because I'm a better footballer?"
Cesar just laughs, louder than Eden's comment deserves, and goes from the doorway to two steps into the bedroom. Eden counts that as a come-on, and Cesar is still laughing a little when Eden stands up, walks across the bed and drops down to stand right in front of him. He's still smiling widely when Eden stands closer than a friend would, and his lips are still curved upwards when Eden kisses them.
Their room service arrives when Eden has got Cesar spread out on the bed, his knees bent and Eden between them.
"How do you say 'go away' in English?"
Cesar laughs, a little shaky. "If we ignore them," he says, "They'll leave it outside the room. What, you never done this hotel living before?"
Eden pushes up on one elbow and raises his eyebrows. Cesar grins, dropping his head back to the pillow. The room service knocks again, and Eden ignores them.
2.
“Am I really the best right back you've played with?”
“No, I just said that for the cameras.”
They’re in Cesar’s room. Eden’s found a place in London, but Cesar hasn’t. Someone else is still making his bed every day, still cleaning up after him, which makes Eden laugh when they’ve made a mess of the sheets, and, once, when they make a mess of the bathroom.
Cesar kicks his leg out to try to catch Eden but he’s too slow. Eden catches a hold of his ankle and doesn’t let go as he leans into the en-suite, snags some tissues from the dispenser and comes back to the bed.
He throws them on Cesar’s stomach and Cesar grins at him.
“You want to beat Anthony? Get some assists down you.”
“I have two,” Cesar protests. He watches himself as he cleans his skin and Eden does too.
“Bet you never did that with Anthony though,” Cesar says, catching Eden looking. Eden doesn’t really care, but he makes a show of it. “I’m having a shower,” he says, “And then I’m leaving.”
Cesar just laughs.
3.
“I thought you’d be more of a dick,” Cesar says. They’re not in bed, they’ve ventured out of their respective houses (because Cesar has his own flat now) and made their way to the river. This part of the Thames is quiet during the day, the locals all at work in the City. The small park at the bend in the river is deserted save for the crazy man feeding the birds, and the two young guys from the continent who still don’t know what they’re doing.
Eden knocks his hand against Cesar’s thigh. “Thanks man,” he says. “Appreciate it.”
Cesar tips his head back to look at Eden. He has both his arms balanced out along the top of the bench where they are sitting, and one of them is resting against Eden’s shoulder.
Eden doesn’t look, but he thinks Cesar’s probably laughing at him again. They laugh at each other a lot, he thinks that’s why they’re friends. Probably why they’re - the other stuff, too.
“Well you know,” Cesar says. “The papers and the blogs and all that. And whenever I played against you, you were so good -”
Eden looks at him then. “I was what?”
Cesar laughs and shakes his head. “No I’m not saying it twice - I just -”
“No sorry,” Eden sits up straighter and faces Cesar. “What was that?”
Cesar laughs harder. “I just meant - that usually people who are - you know - they’re pretty cocky. Pretty pleased with themselves.”
Eden knocks their knees together, because they’re in public. He knows his grin is smug, but he can’t help it.
“Thanks,” he says. “For recognising.”
Cesar kicks him then, and holds up his middle finger to Eden’s face. “I take it back,” he says. “You’re cocky as fuck.”
Eden just keeps their knees pressed together, and pretty soon they go back to his house.
Untitled Balon d'Or fill
Cristiano Ronaldo & Leo Messi
For this prompt: "Since Leo won the Ballon d'Or again, maybe Cris seeks him out due to jealousy and something happens. Or (preferably) they're in an established relationship, and maybe Leo gets a little drunk and Cris gets more than a little bitter."
A/N: The OP started it off, I added a few lines with the full intention of writing a heftier piece, and then I fell asleep and when I woke up I was bored of it.
"Congratulations," Cristiano says shortly. "You win again."
Leo doesn't reply, just takes another swallow of his drink. He regards Cristiano mildly over the rim, and then, after a long pause, says, "Thanks."
Cristiano gives a wry smile and looks away, over his shoulder. No one is near enough to eavesdrop, but plenty of people are watching.
When he turns back, he isn't smiling anymore and he looks tired around the eyes. Messi knows the feeling.
"Is Irina here tonight?"
Cristiano shakes his head. "She's working. Antonella? I guess she is busy eh?" And he's smiling properly then, at Leo, and Leo smiles back because he remembers who is waiting for him at home, and who is waiting for Cristiano.
"Yeah," he says, ducking his head because he smiles too soppily these days. "Something like that."
Three people who tried to cheer up Cris on the plane back and one who did
Cristiano Ronaldo & his teammates
For this super cute prompt: "Cristiano, Iker, Sergio, Marcelo and Xabi fly back to Madrid from Zurich after the BdO ceremony and they try to cheer up Cristiano for missing out by a not so small margin again."
1. Iker
Iker is laughing with a reporter on the red carpet before the ceremony. Cristiano likes seeing him like that, letting go of the fierceness and worry of his job. He likes it when he sees Iker without his captain face on.
Right now - Iker has his captain face on. They are waiting in the lounge to board, and Iker is hovering, firm resolve in his frown and conciliatory words only moments from his lips. Cristiano heads him off with a, "Hey, Sara!" He waves her over from the corner to which she had discreetly removed herself, and ignores Iker's sigh.
2. Sergio
They are on the plane and Cristiano is by the window, content with staring into the dark sky and steadfastly ignoring anyone who hovers near his seat. He can't, however, ignore the shout down the cabin of, "Hey, Iker, you voted for Sergio?"
Cristiano looks around. Across the aisle, Sergio has perked up. He is staring over where Iker is sat next to Sara, and he is grinning widely. "Did you really?" he says. "Did he really?"
Someone waves a phone above the seats. "Yeah," they say. "It's on the internet, see."
Cristiano buries the little voice in his head that says he's your captain-, and goes back to the window and the sky beyond.
3. Marcelo
Marcelo lets him be for forty minutes, and then he swings into the empty seat beside him with a huge sigh.
Cristiano gives it a minute, but Marcelo doesn't leave. He turns to face him. "Don't-" he starts.
"Yeah yeah," Marcelo says. "Don't bother, right?"
Cristiano shrugs.
Marcelo doesn't say anything more, but he scuffs an affectionate hand across Cristiano's hair and laughs when, like clockwork, Cristiano reaches up to fix it. Cristiano wishes he felt better.
4. Xabi
They're filing off the plane and Xabi is behind Cristiano. He hasn't said much to Cristiano all evening, which Cristiano appreciates.
Now, as he leans forward with a touch to Cristiano's back, all he says is, "Well, you had the better suit anyhow."
It is so unexpected that Cristiano bursts out laughing. The pilot at the door of the plane jumps and that makes him laugh even more.
"Thanks," he says when he has regained his composure. Xabi just smiles across at him, and Cristiano feels ready to face the crowd.
Untitled unintentionally crushing fill
Kun Aguero & Leo Messi
For this prompt: "Can an anon just have some cute Kun/Leo fic, please?"
This now sucks because of the actual news about Kun's life which makes me fucking miserable even though he's just some dude I have no connection to, but w/e.
An injured Kun is a bored Kun, and a bored Kun is a Kun who rings Leo every day and texts him more besides.
Hahaha! The papers say you'll transfer because you hate david! Hahahaha!
Haha leo also they say you'll transfer to city
Obviously I'd love to have you here baby
Leo has barely finished reading when his phone vibrates again and Kun's name appears on the screen.
"Did you just call me baby?"
Kun laughs, and it makes Leo smile. "I always call you baby, baby."
"You have only ever called me baby when you were drunk that one time," Leo says, sternly but fighting his smile, and Kun laughs again.
"So what is it Leo, you gonna come play with me?"
"Kun, all the money in the world could not persuade me to spend more time near you than international breaks already force me to."
"Asshole," Kun says, but he's still laughing. "See if I welcome you when you turn up, begging to be free of Villa. See if I give you a place to stay."
He pauses.
"There's no room at this inn, Messi."
Leo snorts. "Have you left the house today?"
"Leo no!" Kun sounds dismayed. "Why would I leave the house when I could lie on this sofa and call you?"
"Wow. Kun, get out of the house. Seriously. Don't you have physical therapy or something?"
Dismissive, Kun says, "Later." Leo can hear him shifting around on the sofa. "Benji's gonna be back from playgroup soon. He loves sofa games."
"You're a disaster," Leo says. "I just want you to know now that you are never going to babysit Thiago. And he doesn't get to be friends with Benji until he's old enough to know right from wrong."
"What," Kun draws the word out like he is appalled. "You are a terrible friend, Leo Messi. Terrible! Our kids are gonna get married, and Benji's going to be the best house-husband ever."
Leo gives up. He is no match for a bored, housebound Kun. He grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and heads to his own lounge to sit down. If Kun's starting on How Our Kids Are Going To Rule The World, Leo might as well make himself comfortable.
"Hang on," he says, settling down on the couch and moving a few cushions around. "Why is Thiago the breadwinner?"
Untitled hotel room shenanigans
Iker Muniain/Javi Martinez
For this prompt: "javi recently tweeted "tarde para olvidar de @IkerMuniain27 en la play. no había visto algo así nunca...el mobiliario del hotel destrozado!" which means basically "an afternoon to forget about @ikermuniain27. i had never seen anything like it before...all the hotel furniture is destroyed!" he also included a picture of iker playing fifa."
holy hell this is old. OLD. ALSO THIS FILL IS A LITTLE AWKWARD NOW as David Lopez moved to Brighton & Hove Albion and now he’s just some dude that my brother watches with his season ticket. AWK. disclaimer: I knew very little about these two when I wrote this.
David Lopez pauses before he knocks on the door of room 206. It's tempting to turn around, go back to his own room, pick up his book and continue to deliberately ignore the highly suspect and probably headache-inducing antics of his team. All afternoon he's been hearing the garbled yells and screams of outrage that accompany all FIFA tournaments. Finally there was one almighty crash, and since the subsequent bout of yelling everything has gone rather quiet. David can't decide if this is a good or a bad sign.
Against his better judgement, David knocks.
Behind the door he hears some muffled giggling, and then someone moving towards the door as if to check through the peephole.
"Javi?" David says. "Iker? Hello?" He squints back at the peephole.
"Come in," he hears, and then, "Don't come in! Don't -"
- then the sound of some large object hitting another large object, a loud squawk, and Javi's unmistakable high pitched laughter.
David leaves.
If David could have seen through the door, this is the sight that would have greeted him:
Iker, trousers off, doubled over and trapped in a headlock by Javi, who is currently trying not to step on the slightly bent lampshade that is rolling around under their feet. Iker yells a bit more as his head gets dangerously close to the corner of the desk.
"You're such a shit," he says, "Get off me."
Javi just keeps laughing.
"And stop fucking laughing you sound like a drunk peacock."
Javi laughs more, lets Iker go and bends down to pick up the various lamp parts. "You're a fucking liability," he says, "Jesus Christ. Can't take you anywhere."
Iker ignores him, leans on the desk and runs a hand through his hair, checks in the reflection of a framed photo on the wall that it's not all over the place. When Javi sees what he's doing he reaches out and again they're wrestling, Iker trying in vain to duck his friend's interfering hands.
Javi pushes him back against the desk and grabs at his wrists. Together they send a pile of papers scattering across the floor.
"I don't know why you didn't want to see David," Javi says, grinning all up in Iker's face. "Our friend David. You're so mean."
"Oh," says Iker, "Yeah, yeah I don't know why I didn't want him to come in and see both of us half naked and with the room half wrecked."
Javi laughs and looks Iker up and down.
"I don't know," he says. "I think he might have enjoyed it."
Iker rolls his eyes but laughs all the same. "You're such an idiot," he says, but he doesn't complain when Javi nudges a leg between his and presses up against him. "You're-" he says, and then forgets what he was saying. Javi kisses him, lets go of one of his wrists to run a hand up Iker's bare thigh as far as he can reach.
"Take some clothes off," Iker says, and Javi does.
Iker's pushing up against Javi, trying to get some friction, when Javi pulls back, grins at him, swipes a hand through his hair, and drops to his knees.
He looks up at Iker and Iker sort of pants incoherently back at him, which would be more embarrassing if Javi hadn't seen him like this more times than Iker can count.
"Wait," he manages, and Javi raises his eyebrows. "Are you sure David's gone?"
"Yeah, he is."
Iker pushes at Javi's head. "Wait," he says, "Check. What if someone just walks in on us."
Javi stares at him. "Are you serious?" But he gets up and goes over to the door, double checking that the corridor outside is empty. When he turns around, Iker is unashamedly staring.
Javi half skips back to Iker, overeager but not even caring. "No David," he says, "No anyone. Can I carry on?"
Iker takes a breath to steady himself, and Javi jumps in. "Or, sorry, did you want an audience?" He ducks down, fishes around in his trousers and pulls out his phone. "Cause we can definitely put this on twitter if you-"
The phone is smacked out of his hand and Iker grabs him and shuts up him up quite thoroughly.
"I'm just saying," Javi says, slightly out of breath, "If you want more followers..."
"Shut the fuck up," Iker says, tips his head back against the wall and reaches behind him for something to hold onto.
Javi bites at Iker's collarbone, and a picture frame comes crashing down.
They're dressed again the next time David comes knocking. Javi opens the door and to his credit, looks somewhat sheepish. There is a trail of destruction leading from the sofa to the desk to the bed, and David's not even sure what some of the detritus was originally.
"What on earth," he says, and steps gingerly into the room.
Iker pokes his head up from the sofa. "It's not what it looks like," he says.
David blinks. "What does it look like?"
Javi and Iker exchange glances. "Um," says Javi, "It wasn't us?"
David looks at him. "No wait," Javi says. "We were -"
"- trying to catch this bird that got in," Iker says.
"- playing football," says Javi.
"- fucking," Iker says, and Javi collapses in giggles.
"I don't know what you were doing," David says, "and to be honest I don't think I want to know, but you'd better come up with a better excuse than those."
"We were playing FIFA," Iker says, after a moment, "and things got a bit out of hand."
"Well," Iker says to Javi when they are on their own again that evening. "It's half the truth."
Untitled Rooney character study
Wayne Rooney (with reference to Cristiano Ronaldo)
For this prompt, although I only took the following into account: "him wanting to get away from man u is about him wanting to get away from being ~rooney"
This fic has an alternative title: "how I fixed some of my Rooney pain"
When Wayne Rooney left Everton, he saw the hurt and hatred on their faces. He saw the way the fans turned towards him, flung their arms and their words in his direction, and he understood. He saw himself in their position, shouting the same bitter vitriol at a different version of himself. But with an assurance that filled him from the inside out, he knew too that he was doing the right thing. The morals of football: he had grown up with them, he had learned them till he lived them. Stay at your boyhood club, but don't waste your career. Don't leave too soon, don't leave it too late. Don't switch to the rival team, don't leave your club in the lurch. Get paid but pay them back. Don't lose your head.
The day he entered the boss' office and asked for a transfer, Rooney lost his head. He knows he'll never forget the look on Ferguson's face.
Few players understand what it is like to have your manager as a father figure. Not in the way that Rooney understands it. At Everton he was just an awkward boy who put his head down and played football and got into fights sometimes because he had a quick temper. He had vague, dream-like ambitions: to be the best, to play for England, to win the World Cup. If you had asked him what it was that he wanted to achieve within the season, well. Wayne thinks he might have said to score more goals.
A year with Ferguson, and that was laughable. Rooney sees the young players now come into the team and for a week or two he sees those vague, silly ambitions still in their eyes. It's fair, he thinks. It's difficult to understand why you play the game until you've played under Ferguson. Until Manchester, with all its grandeur and history, all the expectation and the statistics piled on his shoulders before he had even adjusted to the accents, Rooney didn't really get it. Now, he treats the game like an artform. More than that: like an artform and a science combined. Like a religious text of which he has to find the most accurate interpretation.
At first he tries to keep a low profile, tries to follow the lead of the older players, and works on his temper. For a season or so it's fine, good, great even. Then it's like one morning he wakes up and realises that he may be getting somewhere, he may be understanding the game to an extent that he didn't even realise was there a year ago, but he's still a step behind when it comes to Cristiano Ronaldo.
Ronaldo, with all his gelled hair and silly tricks, Ronaldo who can run rings around Rooney in training but who praises him to high heaven in post match interviews. Ronaldo, who in awkwardly phrased English, comes up to Rooney two days after he is sent off for the first time and tells him how bad he feels. Not for the team, he doesn't feel bad for the team. He feels bad for letting Ferguson down.
Rooney had been surprised, like why are you telling me this? Go talk to one of the older players. I don't know Ferguson, I don't know how to fix this. Ronaldo had looked shamefaced. He came to Rooney, he said, because they both understood, they both knew what it was to be raised by Ferguson. So does Giggsy, Rooney had thought. So does Gary. But Ronaldo was right, he did understand. And he watched Ronaldo and though he wouldn't admit it he tried his hardest to learn from him too, even while he envied the other man his quick feet and even quicker finish. Always one step ahead.
Because here's how it was: Wayne Rooney never thought about being the best player in the world, but he thought about playing for the best team. He wanted to lift a cup for Manchester United, and for Ferguson. He wanted to lift a cup to say, look, look what we achieved, and he wanted to do it in the knowledge that he had played his part and that no one else could have played that part for him.
And then Ronaldo, well. He wins the Ballon D'Or, and shatters every preconceived notion Rooney had about his club versus individual loyalties. Maybe he didn't think about being the best player in the world because he couldn't be the best player in the world. Maybe his place in football was to play alongside the best player in the world.
And for a season this works. For a season they are the best partnership the Premier League has seen in years. They are beauty, in the curl of a ball as it drops into the penalty area, as Rooney catches it on that spot on his boot, the very spot that Ronaldo seems to have a telepathic connection to. Not once, not ever, do they look up. They don't catch each others' eyes. Rooney could play these games with his eyes closed. He could touch and score and celebrate with a blindfold and still he would know which way to turn to let Cristiano fly into his arms, to yell incomprehensibly in his ear of the perfection of their game, to deafen Rooney and yet still, still Rooney would play on. Take away all his senses and he would play by instinct alone.
When Ronaldo leaves it is strange, and empty. But when Rooney wakes up to the talk around him, he hears his name and his name only. Slowly the definition of himself, himself as a footballer and not as a partnership, it comes back. When Ferguson speaks to him Rooney feels like the child whose flashier, more talented brother has left home and now finally he's getting his place in the spotlight. And he's buggered if he's going to let this pass him by.
Ronaldo keeps in touch with him, texts and phone calls after their goals. He tries to match Rooney goal for goal but he can't do it and he laughs when Wayne takes the mick. Tells him to get his own Balon d’Or and then maybe they'll talk. It's all banter, but the old dreams start coming back for Rooney. The World Cup looms and he thinks, yeah, come on, I can lead them. I can do the impossible.
And when it's over, there's nothing left. There's no partnership, there's no solo glory. He doesn't read the papers, he knows what they're saying without looking, like every paper he walks past is covered with large angry blotches of the same bitterness, the same let down hurt that he remembers from the day he left Everton. He turns to Ferguson but he knows he's too old to expect the answers to be spread out before him like they were when he was eighteen.
It's no good, he thinks. He can't do this on his own. Berbatov stands in the penalty area and with his head down Rooney can almost feel the force of will that the striker sends his way, but the instinct isn't there anymore and the ball goes into the stands. Rooney doesn't care, some days.
The day he enters the boss' office and asks for a transfer, Rooney feels like he has no option left.
He watches all the Madrid matches, watches Ronaldo's movements and dreams about them at night, can tell his feet are twitching under the sheets, moving to be in the right spot, to catch the ball as it curls into him.
They talk less now but the understanding is still there. Rooney's welcome at Madrid, Ronaldo tells him. There's space for someone who gets the artistry, the study. Rooney shakes his head, but later he thinks: maybe.
Five days go by and the papers are even angrier, the air even blacker around him. Five days go by and he goes back to Ferguson. His hands are shaking that day when he sits down and tells him he doesn't know what to do. Rooney hates himself for saying that, for admitting that weakness. That isn't what Ferguson taught him, this isn't how he brought him up. He was so sure of himself, of his football.
If he was at Madrid, he could be again.
To define oneself as a footballer, Ferguson had told Rooney, back when he was young and stupid and headstrong with ambitions that he couldn't tie down, is to be the best you can be. To define your football. To define your game.
Rooney is certainly still young, and stupid, but when Ferguson repeats this to him in his office after Wayne has handed in a transfer request, Rooney's not quite so young that he can't understand. It may have taken seven years and endless attempts at self definition, and it may take many more, but at least he can look at the man who raised him, Rooney, the footballer, and he gets it.
He tells Ronaldo that he spoke to Ferguson, and that is all that needs to be said. They understand.
"I'm still waiting," Ronaldo says. "Where's that Golden Ball?"
OKAY COOL THAT'S IT.