FIC: the world cup series, or cesc's life in song; viva la vida
So we've come to the end of our journey, last chapter of the series. :(
the world cup series, or cesc's life in song, pt. x: viva la vida.
cesc-centric; implied cesc fabregas/gerard pique. pg-13. cesc is back in barcelona, but for what? pt. ii
author's note: this chapter has a warning, not anything gruesome or any kinks; but i had to write this chapter in terms of what i think will inevitably happen in his career. so if you get upset from thoughts of cesc going places, i highly advise you not to read. sorry in advance. :(
this is a series based on all the songs from Cesc's (atrocious) WC2010 playlist; except for O.M.G. & the Spanish ones (because I can't understand them). all the parts are very loosely connected and can be read individually, but I'll be posting them in sequence. Hope you enjoy!
i. every breath you take - the police
ii. apologize - timbaland & onerepublic
iii. sweet dreams - beyonce
iv. whatever you like - T.I.
v. love is wicked - brick & lace
vi. stereo love - edward maya & vika jigulina
vii. need you now - lady antebellum
viii. in my head - jason derulo
ix. number 1 - tinchy stryder & n-dubz
Cesc shakes out his legs, breathes deep and even, jumps up and down on the spot, rubs his hands together for warmth, stretches his hamstrings, brushes off imaginary specs from his uniform. It’s a part of his non-ritual ritual, where he does anything he can think of that could calm his nerves, does anything to occupy his mind, distracting himself from over-thinking his long-anticipated debut. He stares at the numbered jersey in front of him, a large canary yellow ‘7’ and ‘David Villa’ printed in block letters. Oh god, he thinks, I’m going to screw this up, and, now is not the time for a panic attack. Villa turns around for a quick second and winks. Cesc gulps, not sure if it comforts him or spurs on the jitters.
Waiting in the tunnel, ready to go out, he hears the crowd buzzing with exhilaration. He can taste his excitement; the air here is different from all other places, maybe a little sweeter. The deafening roar of ninety-thousand people shouting and yelling in jubilee filters into the passageway, and Cesc can feel their fervor in his own veins.
Behind him, he can feel the most soothing presence lingering, makes his tense shoulders relax just that little bit, giving him back his fluidity; allows him to demonstrate the perfect combination of edge and elegance in his motion on the pitch. Fuck I love you so much, Cesc thinks, and feels the gentlest of kisses pressed to the top of his head.
The start of the season draws within minutes, and Cesc truthfully doesn’t know what to do. He tries to say something to Puyi who’s walking past him to the front of the line, but the words get caught in his throat, almost swallows his tongue. Carles doubles back like he’s forgotten something, stops in front of Cesc and hugs him so tight that Cesc fears his fingers might fall off.
“You’re going to do great,” he whispers in Cesc’s ear and pats him on the back, leads them into battle.
When Cesc emerges, it’s the most beautiful sight he’s ever witnessed; a magnificent sea of blaugrana waving back at him and he’s waited for this his entire lifetime; echoes of his name chanted in the stadium. Camp Nou welcomes him with her arms wide, smiling down at him from the bright lights above.
As he runs out, the soft green grass yields beneath his cleats, and he’s leaving his mark on Camp Nou, his steps, his life, imprinted onto the canvas of the field. He sees the banners with ‘benvingut de nou, Cesc’ strewn over the railings everywhere; relieved that the fans actually want him on their team and coming home has never felt better. When he catches the Catalan colors displayed on the edge of the stands, he knows for sure that if anyone wanted to slice him open, he’d bleed red and yellow. He’s Catalan until the day he dies, for fucks sake and no one can stop me, he thinks.
Cesc feels like a child in the presence of his favorite footballer, and he is that kid again: twelve years old, wide-eyed and determined, dreaming big dreams and they’re all finally coming true. Looking over to the sidelines, he hopes that his form is something Pep can be proud of when he sits at the post-game conference and ruffles Cesc’s hair fondly as all the journalists scrap for their attention.
When the whistle blows, he forces everything out besides the game, submerges himself in football; the one thing he’s been sure of every minute of his existence, focusing in on the job at hand.
Five minutes in, it finally sinks that he represents Barça now, plays to win for Culés everywhere. When Gerard yells at him, grinning, he moves his ass into gear.
Twenty-two minutes in, all the butterflies in his stomach settle down enough for him to send Leo forward with a pretty spectacular ball. He jogs forward but turns back to look at the defense, catches Piqué smiling.
At half-time, Pep rallies the squad, motivates them - tells them that the score’s still nil-nil but that doesn’t mean they’re doing anything wrong, tells all of them to keep pushing the way they were, that a goal will come soon enough, tells them they look great out there; tells them this team is the reason he coaches.
Seventy-eight minutes in, he watches the ball sail into the top corner sending waves across the white netting and stands in amazement from thirty yards out; looks down to check his feet for any kind of evidence to confirm that he scored. The stadium erupts and Cesc can almost feel the ground shake, looks around at everyone celebrating in unadulterated euphoria, understands that football brought them together in this joy, and he believes, més que un club.
Running up the field, he feels the wind blow through his hair and Gerard scoops him up in celebration. He briefly turns to see Pep who nods and gives him a thumbs up, smile stretched a mile wide on his mentor - his idol, his hero, - his coach’s face. Cesc thinks he could combust with elation, that this is all he’s ever wanted. His heart soars into the night sky with the screams of his teammates overwhelming him and he knows honestly how happy they are for him.
God made the world for moments like this, Cesc thinks.
So that's the end! I also wanna take this time to thank all those who read and gave me feedback. Without you guys, I would've never gotten through! So thank you a million times over -- you guys are the best!
the world cup series, or cesc's life in song, pt. x: viva la vida.
cesc-centric; implied cesc fabregas/gerard pique. pg-13. cesc is back in barcelona, but for what? pt. ii
author's note: this chapter has a warning, not anything gruesome or any kinks; but i had to write this chapter in terms of what i think will inevitably happen in his career. so if you get upset from thoughts of cesc going places, i highly advise you not to read. sorry in advance. :(
this is a series based on all the songs from Cesc's (atrocious) WC2010 playlist; except for O.M.G. & the Spanish ones (because I can't understand them). all the parts are very loosely connected and can be read individually, but I'll be posting them in sequence. Hope you enjoy!
i. every breath you take - the police
ii. apologize - timbaland & onerepublic
iii. sweet dreams - beyonce
iv. whatever you like - T.I.
v. love is wicked - brick & lace
vi. stereo love - edward maya & vika jigulina
vii. need you now - lady antebellum
viii. in my head - jason derulo
ix. number 1 - tinchy stryder & n-dubz
Cesc shakes out his legs, breathes deep and even, jumps up and down on the spot, rubs his hands together for warmth, stretches his hamstrings, brushes off imaginary specs from his uniform. It’s a part of his non-ritual ritual, where he does anything he can think of that could calm his nerves, does anything to occupy his mind, distracting himself from over-thinking his long-anticipated debut. He stares at the numbered jersey in front of him, a large canary yellow ‘7’ and ‘David Villa’ printed in block letters. Oh god, he thinks, I’m going to screw this up, and, now is not the time for a panic attack. Villa turns around for a quick second and winks. Cesc gulps, not sure if it comforts him or spurs on the jitters.
Waiting in the tunnel, ready to go out, he hears the crowd buzzing with exhilaration. He can taste his excitement; the air here is different from all other places, maybe a little sweeter. The deafening roar of ninety-thousand people shouting and yelling in jubilee filters into the passageway, and Cesc can feel their fervor in his own veins.
Behind him, he can feel the most soothing presence lingering, makes his tense shoulders relax just that little bit, giving him back his fluidity; allows him to demonstrate the perfect combination of edge and elegance in his motion on the pitch. Fuck I love you so much, Cesc thinks, and feels the gentlest of kisses pressed to the top of his head.
The start of the season draws within minutes, and Cesc truthfully doesn’t know what to do. He tries to say something to Puyi who’s walking past him to the front of the line, but the words get caught in his throat, almost swallows his tongue. Carles doubles back like he’s forgotten something, stops in front of Cesc and hugs him so tight that Cesc fears his fingers might fall off.
“You’re going to do great,” he whispers in Cesc’s ear and pats him on the back, leads them into battle.
When Cesc emerges, it’s the most beautiful sight he’s ever witnessed; a magnificent sea of blaugrana waving back at him and he’s waited for this his entire lifetime; echoes of his name chanted in the stadium. Camp Nou welcomes him with her arms wide, smiling down at him from the bright lights above.
As he runs out, the soft green grass yields beneath his cleats, and he’s leaving his mark on Camp Nou, his steps, his life, imprinted onto the canvas of the field. He sees the banners with ‘benvingut de nou, Cesc’ strewn over the railings everywhere; relieved that the fans actually want him on their team and coming home has never felt better. When he catches the Catalan colors displayed on the edge of the stands, he knows for sure that if anyone wanted to slice him open, he’d bleed red and yellow. He’s Catalan until the day he dies, for fucks sake and no one can stop me, he thinks.
Cesc feels like a child in the presence of his favorite footballer, and he is that kid again: twelve years old, wide-eyed and determined, dreaming big dreams and they’re all finally coming true. Looking over to the sidelines, he hopes that his form is something Pep can be proud of when he sits at the post-game conference and ruffles Cesc’s hair fondly as all the journalists scrap for their attention.
When the whistle blows, he forces everything out besides the game, submerges himself in football; the one thing he’s been sure of every minute of his existence, focusing in on the job at hand.
Five minutes in, it finally sinks that he represents Barça now, plays to win for Culés everywhere. When Gerard yells at him, grinning, he moves his ass into gear.
Twenty-two minutes in, all the butterflies in his stomach settle down enough for him to send Leo forward with a pretty spectacular ball. He jogs forward but turns back to look at the defense, catches Piqué smiling.
At half-time, Pep rallies the squad, motivates them - tells them that the score’s still nil-nil but that doesn’t mean they’re doing anything wrong, tells all of them to keep pushing the way they were, that a goal will come soon enough, tells them they look great out there; tells them this team is the reason he coaches.
Seventy-eight minutes in, he watches the ball sail into the top corner sending waves across the white netting and stands in amazement from thirty yards out; looks down to check his feet for any kind of evidence to confirm that he scored. The stadium erupts and Cesc can almost feel the ground shake, looks around at everyone celebrating in unadulterated euphoria, understands that football brought them together in this joy, and he believes, més que un club.
Running up the field, he feels the wind blow through his hair and Gerard scoops him up in celebration. He briefly turns to see Pep who nods and gives him a thumbs up, smile stretched a mile wide on his mentor - his idol, his hero, - his coach’s face. Cesc thinks he could combust with elation, that this is all he’s ever wanted. His heart soars into the night sky with the screams of his teammates overwhelming him and he knows honestly how happy they are for him.
God made the world for moments like this, Cesc thinks.
So that's the end! I also wanna take this time to thank all those who read and gave me feedback. Without you guys, I would've never gotten through! So thank you a million times over -- you guys are the best!