the health giving properties of lemonade - football fic - iker/david
the health giving properties of lemonade
Iker Muniain/David de Gea
~1900, PG
This is for distira still because of all the reasons, but comes with a lot of thanks to the_wild_son for indulging my rojita soft spot ♥
“You know you’re not supposed to pick someone to spend the rest of your life with based on their football skills.”
“Well you would certainly hope so,” Iker shoots back, and then laughs.
Iker is lying on his back on David’s bed, head propped up on pillows and feet in the air. One of David’s old footballs is being passed from foot to foot.
“I want some lemonade,” he says to David’s back. David doesn’t answer for a moment, busy typing out a response to someone on his laptop.
“No you don’t,” he says eventually, because he knows it doesn’t matter what he says and because he also knows that Iker doesn’t really want any lemonade, he just wants to be talking.
“Yes I do,” Iker says, and takes a breath. “So,” he starts, and David allows himself a little smile. “So, I was reading on the internet right, apparently it prevents kidney failure or whatever.”
“Kidney failure.”
“Yeah, or whatever.” Iker rolls the ball down his leg to his knee and accidentally flips it into his face. David doesn’t see, but,
“Are you glad I didn’t see that?”
“Mildly,” Iker says, and carries on. “People go on lemonade diets.”
“Lemons have magical properties,” he says, and David grins. He types another reply.
“Are you grinning at me or your computer?” Iker demands. David looks around at him. “How can you even see my face?”
Iker looks at him for a minute and then shrugs his shoulders against the bedclothes. “I couldn’t,” he says, “I could just tell you were smiling. Who were you smiling at?”
David smiles again. “You,” he says, “what are you, magical properties.”
Iker grins. “I don’t know,” he says, and David turns back to the screen. “It’s not like I remember the science behind it.”
David doesn’t think there’s much reason to point out to Iker that the science behind it will probably be dubious at best. Iker’s juggling the ball again and laughing because he knows he’s talking rubbish.
“David,” he says after a while, “David.” He draws his name out. “Hey. Digei,” he says, and David fights a smile at the nickname. He’s distracted, he knows, talking to his cousin on instant messenger, but he kind of enjoys Iker when he gets a bit petulant.
“Why are you paying attention to someone else,” Iker says, “when I’m here?”
“You were having fun,” David says. “Telling me about the health giving properties of lemonade.” But he closes his laptop anyway and stands by the bed, and Iker tips the ball to him. David snatches it from off course and Iker cheers. “Safe hands,” he says, grinning at David, his legs collapsed down on the bed again. David takes a shot and lands it in his laundry basket.
He sits on the bed next to Iker and Iker watches him. “I’m paying you attention now,” David says, and Iker sits up and kisses him.
They fall down in the gap between the pillows and hold onto each others’ t-shirts. David feels the lazy satisfaction of a quiet afternoon. Iker is half on top of them and he’s keeping David warm all down one side.
Iker pulls back and presses his nose to David’s cheek.
“What do you want to do later?” He says. David blinks at him. “Um,” he says, not thinking too clearly. “This?”
Iker looks at him. “Yeah ok,” he says, and slips his hand under David’s shirt.
Who would you marry if you had to marry on player on rm?
David blinks sleepily at his phone. He’s still in bed, his alarm hasn’t gone off yet and he has a few minutes before he has to get up and go to Carrington. He puts his glasses on and sits up slightly.
Who would you marry if you had to marry on player on rm?
It’s from Iker, sent at two in the morning.
David rubs his nose and thinks.
Don’t know, he replies. Who would you?
No you answer, the reply comes, and David’s alarm goes off.
He checks his phone when he gets to training. Iker’s just sent a string of increasingly urgent question marks, so David puts his phone in his locker and heads out.
At lunch, he has the following:
Ander won’t play. He says he would marry Ramos because then people would think he was marrying a girl, which is stupid.
Each to their own. I’m still thinking, David replies.
Iker calls him after practice. “Finished thinking?”
“No,” David says. “It’s a big decision,” he teases, and smiles when Iker sighs in response.
“I don’t know,” David says, “Who did you pick?”
“No,” Iker says, insistent, “Tell me yours first. Why is it taking you this long?”
He sounds a bit put out, and David gives up on the idea of holding out purely to wind him up.
“Oh I don’t know,” he says, running through Ronaldo and Ramos before he lands on, “Casillas.”
There’s a very long pause.
“Sorry,” he says, “should I try again?”
“No,” Iker says, a bit grumpy. “He has a good name anyway.”
David smiles at his phone. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s why I picked him.”
“Wait-” Iker stops. “Why else would you pick him?”
“Because, I don’t know, people think he’s attractive,” David says, in what he hopes is not digging a hole. He is sitting on his own in the kitchen and keeps checking over his shoulder, nervous of someone coming in behind him. “And because we have something in common. Who would you pick?”
“Don’t know,” Iker says. “Ronaldo maybe. Maybe Benzema.”
“You know you’re not supposed to pick someone to spend the rest of your life with based on their football skills.”
“Well you would certainly hope so,” Iker shoots back, and then laughs.
“Well that’s mean,” David says, and Iker coos down the phone. “I didn’t mean it,” he says. “I’d pick you.”
David doesn’t point out that Iker already did.
David is disconcerted that these days when he checks his emails the Google ads down the side are things like, "Find a boyfriend" and "Iker Casillas", when they used to be - well, David can't remember exactly, but he thinks they were along the lines of "Watch live football", "Man Utd" and "Learn English fast".
"My email thinks you're Iker Casillas," he says, next time he talks to Iker.
"Your email is trying to make me jealous," Iker says, "But it's not going to work."
"And anyway," he says, "Mine thinks you're David Beckham."
"Or sometimes a DJ," he adds as an afterthought. "Which you should maybe consider as a second career."
"You know," he says, as David starts to laugh, "After you've succeeded Casillas as the Spanish number one."
He's quiet for a moment.
"Are you done?" David says.
"Yes," Iker says. "What were we talking about?"
Iker's hand is hot on David's stomach and David kicks the covers off his feet. Iker moves closer in retaliation.
"I'm boiling," David says, but Iker doesn't listen or doesn't care, just tangles their legs together and curls his hand round David's waist. David pushes the covers all the way off.
Iker grumbles. "I'm cold," he says, and reaches behind them to pull the covers back over their heads. David is half asleep and sweating and annoyed. He pushes them away from his face and then Iker's huffing and pushing away from David, taking the covers with him and curling up in a ball on the other side of the bed.
David wakes up an hour later and he's freezing. Iker is balanced on the edge of the bed, the covers hanging off him onto the floor. David is now half asleep and freezing and still a bit annoyed and the best option seems to him to be to grab Iker and the covers all in one, deposit them all back in the middle of the bed on top of each other, get an arm firmly around Iker to stop any more funny business, and go back to sleep.
"Make your mind up," Iker says sleepily as he is being manhandled, but he curls his whole body around David and stays put.
They sleep through their alarm and David wakes to Diego banging on the door and Iker drooling a little on his shoulder.
Iker wipes his mouth when David sits up, dislodging the blankets.
"No," he says, eyes closed. "Noooo."
David replaces the covers when he gets out of bed and Iker grins.
They’re last down to breakfast and as they enter the dining hall Iker veers off to where Thiago is sitting, head down, texting. David is watching Iker sit almost on top of Thiago and veers straight into Ander. Ander gives him a sympathetic sort of look, and David apologises.
David sits down next to Diego, who rolls his eyes at him, and when he looks up Iker turns around and catches his eye. He grins at David and David smiles back, and Diego rolls his eyes again. David isn’t expecting anything to be said out loud, doesn’t know quite what everyone else thinks is going on, but if an eye roll is all he’s getting he will stick with that.
“I read that Chelsea are interested in your friend at Athletic.”
They’re walking back to the changing rooms after goalkeeping practice. Anders is better at making conversation than David, who is struggling with English more than he knows he should be, and who prefers to form comfortable silences anyway. It’s how it works with his ‘friend at Athletic’; David forms the comfortable silence and Iker fills it, equally comfortably.
“He’s going to be really great,” David says, and Anders laughs. “Yeah,” he says, “That’s what they say.”
“Chelsea?” David says, just to continue the conversation. “Really?”
He’s a bit put out. He doesn’t want Iker playing for Chelsea. He guesses it would be nice enough with Juan and Oriol there, but still.
“City too,” Anders says, and David feels depressed. “Maybe a replacement for Johnson.”
Later David texts Iker, You didn’t tell me Chelsea and City were interested.
Iker calls him. “Not officially,” he says, and sounds a little awkward about it. David remembers what that felt like: embarrassment at people talking about rumours like they were facts. “And unofficially you’re interested in me too.”
David doesn’t he want to get into a discussion about whether United would actually make a move for Iker, because he suspects the answer is no. It’s not that he would really mind Iker being on a rival team - it would be nice just to have Iker in the same country, the same league, to have the fun of playing opposite him again - but he feels kind of mean telling Iker that he’s not needed at United.
And what does he know anyway, he thinks, he might not be needed at United either.
So he goes for the other option, the one he knows will make Iker grin at him back in Spain.
“I’m interested in you officially,” he says, and Iker snorts. “I’d like that in writing,” he says, and David toys with the idea of putting it on a postcard.
“On headed paper,” he says.
“Yeah,” Iker says, “and signed. I’m holding you to it.”
David grins. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”
***
Iker Muniain/David de Gea
~1900, PG
This is for distira still because of all the reasons, but comes with a lot of thanks to the_wild_son for indulging my rojita soft spot ♥
“You know you’re not supposed to pick someone to spend the rest of your life with based on their football skills.”
“Well you would certainly hope so,” Iker shoots back, and then laughs.
Iker is lying on his back on David’s bed, head propped up on pillows and feet in the air. One of David’s old footballs is being passed from foot to foot.
“I want some lemonade,” he says to David’s back. David doesn’t answer for a moment, busy typing out a response to someone on his laptop.
“No you don’t,” he says eventually, because he knows it doesn’t matter what he says and because he also knows that Iker doesn’t really want any lemonade, he just wants to be talking.
“Yes I do,” Iker says, and takes a breath. “So,” he starts, and David allows himself a little smile. “So, I was reading on the internet right, apparently it prevents kidney failure or whatever.”
“Kidney failure.”
“Yeah, or whatever.” Iker rolls the ball down his leg to his knee and accidentally flips it into his face. David doesn’t see, but,
“Are you glad I didn’t see that?”
“Mildly,” Iker says, and carries on. “People go on lemonade diets.”
“Lemons have magical properties,” he says, and David grins. He types another reply.
“Are you grinning at me or your computer?” Iker demands. David looks around at him. “How can you even see my face?”
Iker looks at him for a minute and then shrugs his shoulders against the bedclothes. “I couldn’t,” he says, “I could just tell you were smiling. Who were you smiling at?”
David smiles again. “You,” he says, “what are you, magical properties.”
Iker grins. “I don’t know,” he says, and David turns back to the screen. “It’s not like I remember the science behind it.”
David doesn’t think there’s much reason to point out to Iker that the science behind it will probably be dubious at best. Iker’s juggling the ball again and laughing because he knows he’s talking rubbish.
“David,” he says after a while, “David.” He draws his name out. “Hey. Digei,” he says, and David fights a smile at the nickname. He’s distracted, he knows, talking to his cousin on instant messenger, but he kind of enjoys Iker when he gets a bit petulant.
“Why are you paying attention to someone else,” Iker says, “when I’m here?”
“You were having fun,” David says. “Telling me about the health giving properties of lemonade.” But he closes his laptop anyway and stands by the bed, and Iker tips the ball to him. David snatches it from off course and Iker cheers. “Safe hands,” he says, grinning at David, his legs collapsed down on the bed again. David takes a shot and lands it in his laundry basket.
He sits on the bed next to Iker and Iker watches him. “I’m paying you attention now,” David says, and Iker sits up and kisses him.
They fall down in the gap between the pillows and hold onto each others’ t-shirts. David feels the lazy satisfaction of a quiet afternoon. Iker is half on top of them and he’s keeping David warm all down one side.
Iker pulls back and presses his nose to David’s cheek.
“What do you want to do later?” He says. David blinks at him. “Um,” he says, not thinking too clearly. “This?”
Iker looks at him. “Yeah ok,” he says, and slips his hand under David’s shirt.
Who would you marry if you had to marry on player on rm?
David blinks sleepily at his phone. He’s still in bed, his alarm hasn’t gone off yet and he has a few minutes before he has to get up and go to Carrington. He puts his glasses on and sits up slightly.
Who would you marry if you had to marry on player on rm?
It’s from Iker, sent at two in the morning.
David rubs his nose and thinks.
Don’t know, he replies. Who would you?
No you answer, the reply comes, and David’s alarm goes off.
He checks his phone when he gets to training. Iker’s just sent a string of increasingly urgent question marks, so David puts his phone in his locker and heads out.
At lunch, he has the following:
Ander won’t play. He says he would marry Ramos because then people would think he was marrying a girl, which is stupid.
Each to their own. I’m still thinking, David replies.
Iker calls him after practice. “Finished thinking?”
“No,” David says. “It’s a big decision,” he teases, and smiles when Iker sighs in response.
“I don’t know,” David says, “Who did you pick?”
“No,” Iker says, insistent, “Tell me yours first. Why is it taking you this long?”
He sounds a bit put out, and David gives up on the idea of holding out purely to wind him up.
“Oh I don’t know,” he says, running through Ronaldo and Ramos before he lands on, “Casillas.”
There’s a very long pause.
“Sorry,” he says, “should I try again?”
“No,” Iker says, a bit grumpy. “He has a good name anyway.”
David smiles at his phone. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s why I picked him.”
“Wait-” Iker stops. “Why else would you pick him?”
“Because, I don’t know, people think he’s attractive,” David says, in what he hopes is not digging a hole. He is sitting on his own in the kitchen and keeps checking over his shoulder, nervous of someone coming in behind him. “And because we have something in common. Who would you pick?”
“Don’t know,” Iker says. “Ronaldo maybe. Maybe Benzema.”
“You know you’re not supposed to pick someone to spend the rest of your life with based on their football skills.”
“Well you would certainly hope so,” Iker shoots back, and then laughs.
“Well that’s mean,” David says, and Iker coos down the phone. “I didn’t mean it,” he says. “I’d pick you.”
David doesn’t point out that Iker already did.
David is disconcerted that these days when he checks his emails the Google ads down the side are things like, "Find a boyfriend" and "Iker Casillas", when they used to be - well, David can't remember exactly, but he thinks they were along the lines of "Watch live football", "Man Utd" and "Learn English fast".
"My email thinks you're Iker Casillas," he says, next time he talks to Iker.
"Your email is trying to make me jealous," Iker says, "But it's not going to work."
"And anyway," he says, "Mine thinks you're David Beckham."
"Or sometimes a DJ," he adds as an afterthought. "Which you should maybe consider as a second career."
"You know," he says, as David starts to laugh, "After you've succeeded Casillas as the Spanish number one."
He's quiet for a moment.
"Are you done?" David says.
"Yes," Iker says. "What were we talking about?"
Iker's hand is hot on David's stomach and David kicks the covers off his feet. Iker moves closer in retaliation.
"I'm boiling," David says, but Iker doesn't listen or doesn't care, just tangles their legs together and curls his hand round David's waist. David pushes the covers all the way off.
Iker grumbles. "I'm cold," he says, and reaches behind them to pull the covers back over their heads. David is half asleep and sweating and annoyed. He pushes them away from his face and then Iker's huffing and pushing away from David, taking the covers with him and curling up in a ball on the other side of the bed.
David wakes up an hour later and he's freezing. Iker is balanced on the edge of the bed, the covers hanging off him onto the floor. David is now half asleep and freezing and still a bit annoyed and the best option seems to him to be to grab Iker and the covers all in one, deposit them all back in the middle of the bed on top of each other, get an arm firmly around Iker to stop any more funny business, and go back to sleep.
"Make your mind up," Iker says sleepily as he is being manhandled, but he curls his whole body around David and stays put.
They sleep through their alarm and David wakes to Diego banging on the door and Iker drooling a little on his shoulder.
Iker wipes his mouth when David sits up, dislodging the blankets.
"No," he says, eyes closed. "Noooo."
David replaces the covers when he gets out of bed and Iker grins.
They’re last down to breakfast and as they enter the dining hall Iker veers off to where Thiago is sitting, head down, texting. David is watching Iker sit almost on top of Thiago and veers straight into Ander. Ander gives him a sympathetic sort of look, and David apologises.
David sits down next to Diego, who rolls his eyes at him, and when he looks up Iker turns around and catches his eye. He grins at David and David smiles back, and Diego rolls his eyes again. David isn’t expecting anything to be said out loud, doesn’t know quite what everyone else thinks is going on, but if an eye roll is all he’s getting he will stick with that.
“I read that Chelsea are interested in your friend at Athletic.”
They’re walking back to the changing rooms after goalkeeping practice. Anders is better at making conversation than David, who is struggling with English more than he knows he should be, and who prefers to form comfortable silences anyway. It’s how it works with his ‘friend at Athletic’; David forms the comfortable silence and Iker fills it, equally comfortably.
“He’s going to be really great,” David says, and Anders laughs. “Yeah,” he says, “That’s what they say.”
“Chelsea?” David says, just to continue the conversation. “Really?”
He’s a bit put out. He doesn’t want Iker playing for Chelsea. He guesses it would be nice enough with Juan and Oriol there, but still.
“City too,” Anders says, and David feels depressed. “Maybe a replacement for Johnson.”
Later David texts Iker, You didn’t tell me Chelsea and City were interested.
Iker calls him. “Not officially,” he says, and sounds a little awkward about it. David remembers what that felt like: embarrassment at people talking about rumours like they were facts. “And unofficially you’re interested in me too.”
David doesn’t he want to get into a discussion about whether United would actually make a move for Iker, because he suspects the answer is no. It’s not that he would really mind Iker being on a rival team - it would be nice just to have Iker in the same country, the same league, to have the fun of playing opposite him again - but he feels kind of mean telling Iker that he’s not needed at United.
And what does he know anyway, he thinks, he might not be needed at United either.
So he goes for the other option, the one he knows will make Iker grin at him back in Spain.
“I’m interested in you officially,” he says, and Iker snorts. “I’d like that in writing,” he says, and David toys with the idea of putting it on a postcard.
“On headed paper,” he says.
“Yeah,” Iker says, “and signed. I’m holding you to it.”
David grins. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”
***