[ The Court Will Rise: Part III (part i) ]
Ships: Steven Gerrard/Xabi Alonso, Sergio Ramos/Fernando Torres, Iker Casillas/Cesc Fàbregas, Raúl/Guti, Cristiano Ronaldo/Kaká
Summary: One man dead, another accused. Can the legal team of Alonso, González, & Casillas save Cristiano Ronaldo? Lawyer AU. Uh.
Disclaimer: Not true, broseph. A l s o I know jack-all about the law tbh, that’s why I’m trying to get in to law school. So this fic brought to you by episodes of Law & Order: SVU and the wonderful legal counsel of Google, Google, & Wikipedia™.
Chapter: Third Brief
Word Count: 11,003 L O L.
Ships: Sergio Ramos/Fernando Torres ; pre-Iker Casillas/Cesc Fàbregas, pre-Steven Gerrard/Xabi Alonso, pre-Raúl González/Guti, pre-Cristiano Ronaldo/Kaká
Characters: Xabi Alonso, Raúl González, Iker Casillas, Sergio Ramos, Cesc Fàbregas, Steven Gerrard, Guti, Fernando Torres, Arsène Wenger, Fernando Llorente, Xavi Hernández, w/ a cameo from Sir Alex Ferguson himself ; (Cristiano Ronaldo, Kaká)
Rating: PG-17 for the usual + strong language
Links: Table of Contents
Notes: Remember when I was like oh the next chapter won’t be as long I PROMISE?
lol. fml. I give up.
Also I hate this chapter more than words can describe. It’s 11,000 words about nothing, which is truly nauseating. You have been warned.
Third Brief.
EXHIBIT A.
I see you for what you are. You might have everyone else fooled with your humble martyr act, but that's as tired as your sense of fashion and I'm not that stupid or gullible.
I don't think you really understand who I am or what I can do. I grew up in hell, I know what it feels like. I can easily make your life hell too.
In fact, I'm through with you. Consider it done. You'll never work for my company or any other fashion house again, I'll make sure of it.
CR7.
May 2011; Roxbury District Police Headquarters
Stevie thinks that there’s a reason Guti never answers his cell phone when he’s most needed. There’s a bit of Murphy’s Law working somewhere in there and a case of bad luck stemming from some karma he picked up in high school that he still hasn’t worked off, but mostly it’s that José María Gutiérrez knows exactly, almost instinctively, when a situation is going to be irritating enough to usher in a tension headache.
As it is, Stevie really shouldn’t be here alone. As it is, furthermore, Stevie really can’t seem to think properly around the pressure building in his head, mostly because Jamie’s suspicions that he’s borderline addicted to Ibuprofen proved to be somewhat true and his partner had, subsequently, confiscated his entire stash of painkillers. Arsewipe.
He sits across the table, hand immediately on his tie to loosen it because he can feel his throat closing in on itself. Then he remembers where he is and why and suddenly, his common law professor’s distinctly nasal and droning voice invades his head-Steven, you need to always dress professionally, it is the most important thing next to a proper haircut- and he lets his fingers drop out of sheer annoyance. He can’t help but wheeze pathetically afterward.
“Do you need something to drink?” the aggravatingly calm man across from him raises an eyebrow and Stevie manages to temper his glare into a glower long enough to close his fingers around the bottle the precinct was thoughtful enough to provide.
“I’m fine,” he grunts and Xabi Alonso’s patronizing expression smoothes into stoicism again.
“Where’s the rest of your counsel?” Xabi asks pointedly, to which Stevie replies, “Where’s yours?” and it’s a bit more childish than he usually prefers, but there’s that headache, it’s to blame entirely.
Next to Xabi, a tan man in a sleek black suit scratches his nose and looks critically at Stevie.
“Can we get this over with?” Cristiano says, to which both Xabi and Stevie hiss out, “Shut up, Ronaldo” and then exchange unprofessional looks bordering on murderous.
Cristiano sighs in annoyance and leans back in his chair.
“The sexual tension in this room is fucking killing me.”
Stevie chokes on those words and swallows down a threat that may have begun with You fucker and ended with We’ll see what really kills you and it’s really a blessing in disguise that Guti isn’t there right now, because he would have had no qualms about saying either.
“Your counsel is here, someone is getting you your vitamin water, can we begin?” Stevie asks dryly. He leans forward to appear intimidating, but a throbbing vein in Xabi’s temple suggests that intimidating has now become synonymous with aggravating. Stevie will take whatever he can get.
“You’re the one with the questions, not me,” Cristiano says. Stevie reminds himself to breathe and count to ten before he strangles the motherfucker with the obnoxious smirk.
“And you’re the one with the murder charges, so I wouldn’t be so cocky,” Stevie snaps. He adjusts his pen and sits back in his chair and mutters under his breath, “Arsehole.”
Stevie is mostly calm through the questioning until Xabi starts interrupting him every two seconds.
“Did your hatred for Messi cause you to threaten-”
“Don’t answer that.”
“You didn’t have any qualms about killin-”
“Do not answer that.”
“Where did you hide the bod-”
“Don’t answer that,” the Basque man snaps.
“Let him answer his own fucking questions, Jesus-” Stevie begins angrily, but Xabi cuts him off again.
“Don’t ask such ridiculously leading questions-”
“This isn’t court, I can ask whatever the fuck I want-”
“And as his counsel, I can advise him to not answer whenever I want-”
“Stop hindering the process, Xabier-”
“Like you would know the process, Steven-”
Halfway through the bickering, Cristiano clears his throat and interrupts them.
“Jesus Cristo, I’d ask to be thrown in jail just to avoid you two-”
Stevie manages to swallow back a frustrated, strangled cry before both he and Xabi snap, “Shut up, Ronaldo.”
Cristiano Ronaldo leans back in his chair and smirks.
A vein throbs somewhere near his own temple, slowly and purposefully, as if to reassure him that yes, he really does have to deal with murderous fuckwits like Cristiano Ronaldo without the help of anyone pleasant whatsoever.
Stevie takes a copy of the threatening letter out of his file and throws it across the room at Xabi and Cristiano, both of whom are smug enough to make Stevie’s blood boil. Vaguely, he hears ringing in his ears and he clenches his fist as he leans against the table.
“Explain that,” he hisses and Xabi barely has time to read the letter before Cristiano’s smirking and leaning forward, a glimmer in his eyes.
“I meant every word,” he whispers and fixes Stevie with a wink that Xabi can’t see.
Immediately, Stevie feels himself lose control, his blood pressure rises to a head and the thudding in his skull turning sharply into a migraine he could probably channel into a strangling sort of rage.
“You’re a murdering son-of-a-bitch,” Stevie growls at some point, pushes up from his chair and the noise of wood against concrete is so screeching and loud that they all hear the door rustling from outside immediately.
Xabi is on his feet within seconds, a hand on Cristiano’s shoulder that’s so tightly clamped that the fashion designer winces. The gesture seems to be more to contain himself than the Portuguese man, but Stevie is beyond noticing either.
“Enough, we’re done for today,” the Defense attorney breathes angrily and the guards are inside the room, their hands on Cristiano immediately.
“I’m going to lock you up, you motherfucking-”
“Enough,” Xabi’s voice rings out. The guards shuffle Cristiano out of the room and within seconds, Xabi’s crossed the distance, hands on Stevie’s collars and the Prosecutor finds himself shoved roughly against the wall.
A sculpted Basque face, breathing barely-controlled anger twists from rage in front of him and Stevie retaliates by grabbing a fistful of Xabi’s shirt.
“Don’t you ever treat my client that way again, or else I’ll-”
“Or else you’ll what,” Stevie sneers and Xabi uses his strength to slam him against the back wall again before guards are immediately between the two of them, pulling them apart.
“Your side can rot in hell,” Xabi spits out angrily, words twisting through English and Spanish and maybe it’s out-of-character, but Stevie can see nothing but visions of red.
“Your client will, if you don’t first, Xabier,” Stevie manages to choke out before both he and Xabi wrest themselves out of the guards’ grips. He straightens his jacket jerkily, breathing harshly in and out.
“I have it under control, for Christ’s Sake!” Stevie glowers at the man next to him while Xabi mutters a furious stream of Spanish.
The Spaniard casts one last deadly glance over at Stevie and Stevie flips him the bird. Xabi storms out of the room and Stevie slams his fist onto his briefcase before sweeping his arms across the table in anger.
His water bottle crashes into the window and papers flutter everywhere. From the doorway, Stevie sees Guti in the hallway, talking to the Chief of Police. The blond man raises an eyebrow, but Stevie does not, to put it lightly, give a flying fuck.
Three Weeks Later; May 2011
Sergio loosens his tie first of all, sliding the purple and pink speckled knot further down his throat so that breathing becomes a friend again rather than just an acquaintance. He’s exhausted to begin with, but the lack of oxygen accompanied by the strict restrictions of suits and ties wears down his limbs in a way that only alcohol can ever cure. The sigh barely makes it past his lips before he catches the eye of the bartender and he can only offer a tired smile, a bare flicker of what he’s usually capable of, but it will have to do, considering. His head is pounding with an amount of obscure, barely pronounceable Latin that he’s not sure is entirely legal. Or patriotic. He wonders, briefly, if Wenger would let him out of the second round of Mock Trials if a Tea Party sympathizer somehow found out and took it upon himself to make sure Sergio was taught the error of his ways. A black eye or forced conversion to Republicanism never looked good with blue suits or purple ties anyway. He might as well drop out, save face, do Wenger’s class and, subsequently, the world a load of good, etc. etc.
“You look like you need more than the usual,” the lion-maned bartender says with a smile and pushes a shot glass along with Sergio’s usual beer. “On the house.”
Sergio raises an eyebrow.
“Okay, on me,” he says, smile widening. “If you glower any harder you’ll scare away the customers and then Reina will have my ass.”
Sergio shakes his head tiredly, but there’s enough of a smile there to show his appreciation. He takes the shot glass first, spinning it carefully between tanned fingers and is about to drink to the bartender when a body slides into the booth next to him.
There’s nothing out of the ordinary about that, except Sergio can feel exhaustion rolling off of the guy in waves similar to his own. They’re on the same frequency, apparently, and it’s tangible enough for Sergio to let out a low laugh.
“Cheers,” he says to the other person, raising his glass and the young man-brown haired and freckle-faced with wide eyes that are nearly falling closed even as they flutter to a sort of startled-smoothes past confusion to a small smile.
“Why not?” the guy chuckles and raises a glass of beer to meet Sergio’s shot of-
Sergio winces as the whiskey burns down his throat and he barely manages to swallow down a cough as he turns a formidable glare at the bartender.
“What the fuck, Llorente?”
Llorente seems to fall conveniently deaf and moves away to chuckles that are really too loud to not be subtle.
Sergio glowers for a second before reaching for his beer.
“Not a fan of whiskey?” the guy next to him chuckles and Sergio turns to him, more than a little impressed that he’s been able to tell but then- “I could smell it from here.”
Which is fair enough, Sergio supposes, so he lifts his beer in cheers instead.
“To,” he pauses to think.
“Nights off,” the other man finishes and he’s loosening his tie as well, so Sergio knows that he understands.
“Fuck yes,” Sergio grins and the two clink glasses.
“Fernando,” the freckled man says, wrinkling his nose and coughing after a shot of whiskey seemingly burns down his throat as well.
Sergio laughs almost too hard into his beer before Fernando waves down Llorente.
“Another round of shots.”
“Jack’s?”
“For the love of god, man, give me some tequila,” Sergio glowers and Llorente seems a little too amused as he moves away with an almost patronizing salute.
“You didn’t tell me yours,” Fernando remarks, amused. He picks up a few nuts and pops them into his mouth. It’s only a few seconds later that his pink tongue flicks out and licks the salt from his lips, but Sergio pays attention despite himself.
“Ramos,” he says with a grin. He leans in close. “But, eh. What the fuck, you can call me Sergio.”
“Law school,” Sergio groans. He shifts in his chair, feeling the restraint of his professional clothes stifle him. In retrospect, he really should have gone home and changed first. In retrospect, he doesn’t really make very good life decisions very often.
“Ah,” is Fernando’s only answer, but he seems sympathetic enough. He rests a hand on Sergio’s shoulder and lightly squeezes. “It gets better.”
Sergio looks up at him quizzically, although it comes off as more accusatory than anything else.
“Well okay. It doesn’t. But look at it this way. Once you’re in so much debt, the only way to go is up, right?”
Fernando smiles widely.
Sergio groans.
“Fuck.”
“How many shots does that make?” Fernando snickers into a glass that, presumably, has beer in it but neither of them can be too sure at this point.
Sergio’s own giggles are cut off by a frown. He’s managed to tug his tie over his head and it’s lying crumpled next to his poor suit jacket. If Fernando had any professional concerns about the state the article of clothing might end up in, he didn’t express it. Sergio’s too busy trying to unbutton the top few buttons to pay attention anyway.
He grunts.
“Stupid fucking-” He growls, but his fingers stumble and he can’t seem to figure out how the little buttons fit through the tiny little holes in the first place.
“Wait, here,” Fernando laughs and reaches forward. His fingertips brush Sergio’s throat and Sergio takes in a sharp breath, but Fernando manages to finish the task quickly. Sergio feels dizzy and covers it by laughing and taking Fernando’s own glass.
“Thanks,” he laughs and finishes the drink off.
A few seconds later, Llorente shows up in front of them, two clean shot glasses and José Cuervo in hand. His eyebrows raise comically into his wild hair.
“I have a feeling I’m enabling something that really shouldn’t be enabled.”
“Hey!” Sergio protests weakly. His voice is followed by rhythmic thumping of his fist on the counter. “Give me my tequila!”
Behind him, Fernando slips an arm around his back. Sergio doesn’t notice. Llorente’s grin widens into a smirk. Clearly, he does.
“I need to piss,” Sergio gasps, the alcohol suddenly hitting his bladder in a way that is entirely too uncomfortable for proper words. He mumbles a rushed apology to Fernando and stumbles away.
Fernando raises an eyebrow, eyes flickering toward the retreating outline of the long-haired, tan-skinned man. He licks his lips briefly before Llorente catches his gaze.
The lion-maned bartender chuckles as he wipes down a glass.
“Go for it.”
Fernando hums happily to himself, mouths down the rest of his beer, and slides off his barstool.
Sergio’s fingers, made thick and rubbery by the amount of alcohol in his system, fumble on his zipper, but eventually manage to tug it up. He stumbles toward the sink and braces his weight against the ceramic, laughing at how dizzy he is. He definitely had better alcohol tolerance during undergrad, no questions asked. He squints at himself in the mirror-tired bags under his eyes and skin that has missed its daily moisturizing treatment for a few weeks, at least-and confuses himself between a weary chuckle and a frown that this is what he’s become. He’s washing his hands in the basin when the door creaks open.
He is, to be frank, too drunk to really pay much attention to anything beyond his immediate vicinity, which explains why he doesn’t notice Fernando until he turns around and the other man is right behind him.
Sergio’s eyes flutter and Fernando’s hands are immediately brushing his hips. Sergio blinks slowly, switching his gaze from his hips back up to Fernando and then back down again. A smile flickers across his lips as the slowly processing cogs in his mind shift, almost excruciatingly, into place.
“Oh.”
Fernando smiles and Sergio finds himself stumbling back until he lightly hits the wall beside the door.
“Yeah.”
Sergio nods, a bit dumbly as though saying oh okay. Makes sense.
“Do you mind?”
Sergio shakes his head and Fernando’s smile widens.
“Oh good.”
He thinks he’s probably a bit drunker than even he suspected because the only move he makes as Fernando’s hand darts out to twist the lock next to them is a desperate scrambling sort of motion to find purchase on the other man’s sides.
Sergio tastes him before he feels him and he thinks it’s odd that Fernando should taste like orange soda and grapes when he’s been drinking Jack, José, and Carlsberg for the last hour. He makes a little muffled noise as Fernando’s fingers hook over the top of his pants and he thinks it’s a bit cruel that he can’t feel it because professionalism dictates that white, buttoned-up shirts must be tucked in at all times.
“Mmm-I don’t usually let strange men seduce me,” he mumbles against Fernando’s lips and it’s funny that he should whine when Fernando pulls back because he’s the one who interrupted the kiss in the first place.
Fernando quirks a smile that Sergio feels the desperate need to shut up. He leans forward hungrily, but Fernando places a finger against his lips. Sergio licks at it.
“Good thing I’m not strange.”
Sergio frowns.
“You are, however, a tease.”
Fernando grins and this time he lets Sergio tug him closer, dark hands splayed across his sides, mouth suctioned at the back of his jaw because, apparently, his lips are off limits.
“That, I didn’t deny.”
At which point Sergio issues a sort of drunken, mewling growl and Fernando assents by pushing him back against the wall again and abusing his lips in a satisfying kind of way. Sergio smiles happily and opens his mouth for the other man, who takes the initiative just as eagerly. Sergio then finds that tugging out tucked shirts is actually relatively easy, smashed or not.
It’s only when his fingertips find hints of skin that he lets out a sigh of relief and he thinks that if they were anywhere else, he’d just rid Fernando of the shirt altogether because one, he really fucking hates buttoned up shirts like a fucking lot and, two, he would really like to know what freckles taste like.
Sergio wakes up with a familiar groan and someone hovering irritatingly close to his head.
“You didn’t even change,” the voice remarks and it’s so resoundingly loud that Sergio briefly thinks he would threaten to vomit all over his face if that wasn’t so dangerously plausible.
“Why’re- my room,” Sergio groans or, at least, manages to string together syllables that sound vaguely like real words.
“At least there’s no one in your bed this time,” the voice, so goddamn cheerful, says. Sergio groans again and then hears rattling above his head. “I brought aspirin!”
“Cesc,” Sergio gurgles and it’s as close to a non-threatening thanks as his roommate will get.
Cesc sticks his face close to Sergio’s bleary, barely-opened eyes and smiles.
“Did you even get his number?”
A moment’s pause and Sergio moans into his pillow in something close to tortured agony.
“Fuck.”
One Year Earlier; April 2010, Boston University School of Law
If you move your pencil up and down just so, Cesc discovers, it actually resembles rubber. The thought, while quite elementary in nature, Cesc also discovers, takes on a new profundity in law school. There are accompanying questions now-questions so philosophical in essence that he can only but wonder that he never thought of them before. Questions such as: Why does it look like rubber? What makes it look like rubber? What does rubber actually look like? and Why hasn’t Wenger stopped talking about the intricacies of compensatory damages in three days?
His newfound pleasure in life is cut short when he loses his grip on the yellow #2 and it skitters out of his fingers, across the desk, and over the ledge. He lets out a faint whine as he watches his writing utensil-his tool, his savior, the only reason he still gets up in the morning-roll down the carpeted steps of a room that resembles a Roman amphitheatre more than anything else.
Next to him, Sergio nudges his foot sharply and Cesc thinks there is something so terribly pathetic about the fact that Sergio Ramos is paying better attention than he is.
“Clearly you are all engrossed,” Wenger says dryly and a half-hearted chuckle echoes around the room. It sounds hollow and haunting-much like the hearts of law students everywhere, Cesc thinks-and Wenger responds with a much aggrieved sigh and a very French roll of his eyes. “Fine, we’re done with compensatory damages for now. As it is, we have a guest for the rest of class, so count your blessings.”
Cesc raises his head from the desk in vague interest when Wenger barks out his name.
“Fàbregas! Do you not hear that knocking, get the door, mon dieu.”
Cesc snaps up, pink crawling up the back of his neck, and he manages to elbow a snickering Sergio before bounding up the shallow stairs to the thick, wooden doors.
He grasps the handle and pulls it back at the same time it’s being pushed on and what results is an awkward stumbling and tripping over inconveniently untied shoelaces until the person on the other side grasps Cesc’s wrist so he doesn’t fall over backwards. Cesc has the decency not to squawk too loudly, although he wonders when tripping over himself became a theme in his life.
“Whoa, thanks,” he laughs in embarrassment and the man-slightly taller than Cesc, definitely paler, with large brown eyes crinkled at the corners from confusion or maybe amusement-lets go. Cesc smiles sheepishly and stands out of the way. “Not the first time that’s happened-uhhh hey, welcome to our class!”
“Fàbregas, you are an embarrassment to society,” Wenger’s voice comes from below and Cesc is wondering whether snickering would be too unbearably rude when the man in front of him flashes him a grin and winks. Cesc takes that as permission and snickers into his sleeve.
“Sit down, Francesc,” Wenger eyes him and Cesc takes his seat next to Sergio quickly. He’s a bit giddy at having shared an inside joke with a stranger while simultaneously making Arsène Wenger even more irritable than usual. He turns to Sergio to whisper something in victory when he notices his best friend craning his head forward at the guest with glinting eyes. Cesc rolls his own and shakes his head, honestly more interested in returning to mourning the loss of his beloved pencil than paying attention.
That is, until the speaker clears his throat.
It’s strange, the timing of things. Cesc glances up without much expectation just as the man steps behind a podium that has been so uninteresting for the past two hours. But give it a few seconds, a few stray rays of sunlight, and the hand of God or three strange women standing over ancient thread, and Cesc has to cock his head because there’s the illusion of a halo buffeting softly above the man’s faintly receding hairline.
“Oooh,” he breathes out, leaning forward, and he can almost feel the smirk on Sergio’s face next to him.
“So uh,” the man begins. He’s young enough to chuckle nervously at all of the eyes staring at him, but old enough to be somewhat eloquent about it. “Arsène tells me you guys are starting Mock Trial in a week.”
There’s a general murmur of agreement, although only a few poor souls are brave enough to show any amount of enthusiasm for it.
“Papers and readings piled high?”
Again, general agreement. Cesc thinks that he’s probably staring too obviously at the man, but he’s still trying to figure out the mechanics of the disappearing and reappearing halo and his pencil’s disappeared under someone’s foot anyway, so that’s that entertainment gone.
“Don’t worry,” the man says pleasantly. He cocks his head and grins. “It only gets worse.”
There’s an astounded silence for just the amount of time it takes the class to process this before ripples of laughter spread across tired brows. Next to him, Sergio laughs too loudly. Cesc snorts.
“Mock Trial’s going to be one of the best parts of your law experience, trust me,” the man says, shaking his own head. Cesc isn’t really sure why, but something about the way he says it-maybe it’s the evenness of his tone or the straightness of his shoulders, the quiet confidence or the thin smile that makes it seem as though he’s sharing his own little secret with them-makes him believe it.
“Did you win yours?” Sergio asks. Cesc looks over, expecting to see his trademark grin and finds a smirk instead.
The man raises an eyebrow and his lips twitch.
“Multiple times.”
“Then maybe you can show us how it’s done.”
Any other class would quiet and discreetly watch the professor for his reaction, but Cesc’s particular class is so used to Sergio and Wenger had given up on quelling the Spaniard so long ago that barely anyone flinches. Sergio’s smirk widens and Cesc thinks he sees the hint of a challenge in the presenter’s eyes before he shifts and it disappears.
“That’s as good enough segue as any, Mr.-”
“Ramos.”
“Mr. Ramos,” the man nods with a smile. He’s turning to the screen when Cesc leans forward and hears his own voice.
“Wait, you didn’t tell us who you are!”
The guest speaker turns slightly, eyes flickering to Cesc. He doesn’t answer. Cesc pulls back in his seat and slumps, face burning with a mumbled kind of shame.
At the front of the room, the haloed man takes a clicker that’s resting on the podium and turns to the screen that Wenger has since pulled down. A Powerpoint flashes into life at the front of the room. He looks at it briefly before nodding and turning.
“Also a good segue. Iker Casillas. I work at the Law Offices of Alonso, González, and Casillas.”
Maybe Cesc is overthinking it, but he’s pretty sure that Iker Casillas from the Law Offices of Alonso, González, and Casillas is smiling just at him.
Iker Casillas’s presentation, while professional and somewhat humorous, is less engrossing than Iker Casillas himself. It’s less of an immediate crush and more of a desire to be him when he’s all done and down $100K, Cesc decides, although after a half an hour of just staring at Iker’s hands and the tiny little lines forming at the edge of his smile, he begins to suspect otherwise.
“You’re drooling,” Sergio snickers lowly and Cesc, of course, manages to flush just as Iker’s eyes scan the room for the answer to a question Cesc didn’t actually hear.
“The one who opened the door,” Iker’s voice drifts from the front of the room and Cesc nearly slams his chin into the desk as he scrambles to straighten. Under the desk, Sergio’s foot trods harshly on his toes and Cesc hisses with a broad smile.
“Uh. Yeah, hi.”
“Prosecutorial burden?”
Cesc blinks, wide-eyed and more than a little confused. To the side, Wenger sighs and massages his temple.
“To prove … beyond a reasonable doubt.”
“Right,” Iker grins. “And that means…?”
“That… the jury shouldn’t have a,” Cesc swallows. “Reasonable doubt.”
The class laughs-none harder than Sergio, that fucking asshole-and Iker shakes his head in amusement.
“Which side are you on, Mr. ah-”
“Fàbregas,” Cesc mutters. “Defense.”
“Well then,” Iker says and his eyes are sparkling with so much mischief Cesc can feel it coming- “Good thing you won’t have to worry about that.”
Yes, there it is.
Cesc sighs and wonders, faintly, what he’s done within the past twenty four hours to warrant such abuse from God.
“Arsène says he expects nothing less than the absolute best from you guys,” Iker finishes on the last slide. “So if you have any questions, I’ll stay for a few minutes at the end of class.”
At this, Wenger shuffles to the front of the room. He scans the room, a half-glower on his lips, and his eyes fall critically on a few students-namely those named Cesc Fàbregas and Sergio Ramos.
“Don’t ask stupid questions,” he says pointedly and Sergio can barely hide his laughter into Cesc’s shoulder. “You know the reading you have to do. Other than that, meet in your groups for research, you won’t have any more class preparation time before the trials next week.”
Next to him, Iker unplugs his laptop from the projector cords. Cesc watches him carefully as the last remains of the setting sun thread through his seemingly soft hair and settle on his long eyelashes. He doesn’t realize how long he’s been entranced until the jostling beside him snaps him out of it.
“Are you coming?” Sergio asks, packing away his notepads.
Cesc thinks about the question for a brief second before shaking his head.
“I think I have a few questions,” he breathes.
Cesc ignores Sergio’s ribbing and half-serious request to get Iker’s phone number. He swats his roommate away and shifts his backpack from one shoulder to the other as he approaches the front desk. To the side, he can see Wenger packing up as well. They pointedly ignore one another.
It’s a few minutes before the other students gathered clear, but soon enough he’s in front of Iker. The lawyer finishes shutting down his laptop and smiles when he looks up and finds Cesc hovering.
“Mr. Fàbregas,” he says and Cesc is almost positive he’s hiding a chuckle. “You didn’t have to wait. I think I’ve figured out how the doors work.”
Cesc colors and shakes his head.
“I’m not stupid, I swear,” he blurts out and he wonders, vaguely, why he feels the need to embarrass himself on a daily basis. Honestly, it’s halfway to masochism at this point.
“I never said you were,” Iker raises an eyebrow. He zips up his laptop case after filing papers in.
“I know, I just.” Cesc frowns. “I didn’t want you to think-”
“Why should it matter what I think?” Iker asks and it’s a good enough question that Cesc hesitates. It’s unfair that Iker looks as kind as he does because Cesc feels relatively stupid, overall.
Iker chuckles at Cesc’s loss for words and pats him kindly on the shoulder.
“Just win your Mock Trial next week, yeah?”
Cesc manages to mutter something unintelligible-which is usual enough-but he turns as Iker is about to walk past.
“Mr. Casillas-”
“Yeah?” Iker stops and turns.
To Cesc’s horror, he has no idea what he wants to say. He opens his mouth, but his words have dried in his throat. Anything he could possibly have to say couldn’t redeem how utterly embarrassing he is on a daily basis.
Iker pauses and smiles.
“You’re a bright one, Fàbregas.”
Don’t tease Cesc wants to say, since he feels anything but.
Iker slips a hand into his jacket pocket and pulls out a business card. Pressing the card into Cesc’s palm shouldn’t make him so nervous, but it does, so what can he really do?
Almost as though he can read the younger man’s mind, Iker squeezes Cesc’s hand.
“It’s obvious,” he says. And then, “We’re always looking for interns. Give us a call.”
PART II.