Fic: the moon to your tide [David/Iker]
Title: the moon to your tide
Author: last_panda
Pairing: David/Iker
Rating: soft R for innuendo
Word count: ~1,120
Disclaimer: this is an entirely fictional story with fictional characters. Any resemblance to real life is a coincidence.
Summery: one Easter Sunday, one moment snatched in the perpetual dance of the orbit of two men
Notes: a drabble dashed off for my love adorerdollylux, because she was disappointed there were no pictures of David and Iker *together* when he went out for dinner in Madrid with his teammates. It’s not much, but I hope it pleases.
“Iker”
Even just the sound of his voice is so good it’s painful, and Iker wonders again, as he has a million times before, how he has survived these years, (god, has it already been over a year? Really?) with what feels like a gaping hole ripped out of his chest, a hole that can only ever be filled by one thing.
“Vic’s already taken the boys back to LA; they have to be back for school. American schools don’t do Easter breaks like we do.”
We. We Europeans. We, you and me. Us. Even the simplest sentences, carried over countless miles by digital singles, contain enormous pitfalls, traps from which Iker does not think he can ever extract himself.
“Easter is for spending with family-”
Don’t think about that word, don’t think don’t think don’t think-
“So I’m coming to Madrid.”
In one single moment, perfection.
+++
Iker tries to focus, tries not to let his eyes stray to where he knows he’s sitting in the stands. There is an almost constant flurry though, that conspires to draw his eye- people coming up, asking for an autograph, a photo, just to shake his hand. They love him, still, even after all the time he’s been gone. Everybody loves him, they always will.
Iker’s heart swells with happiness, and fierce fierce pride. He deserves all the love the people can give him, every single iota of it-
And Iker was lying if he said it was the flurry of movement that drew his eye. Even in perfect stillness, even in the dark, with nothing visible except the faintest gleam of light reflected of a faint sheen of sweat from a cooling body, Iker’s eye will always be inoxerably drawn, drawn to him.
He is Iker’s loadstone, Iker’s magnetic pole, drawing him always and forever, like a compass needle, to point North. North towards England, towards three lions on a breast, towards a man who will always and forever remain to him Captain, no matter what the armbands say, no matter that Iker is Captain in his own right; there will always only be one captain for Iker’s heart. Iker can no more escape this than the moon can escape earth’s gravity; can not want to escape, for where would the beauty and the poetry of the tides be, without the gentle tug and dance of give and take between the earth and her moon?
But that dance can only be complete if the moon tugs back, and so Iker tugs his eyes away, back to the game, to unimportant things. But the dance of the tide would not be possible without each individual grain of sand: separately, they are meaningless, but all together they form the tapestry of a life, spent washing in and out.
And Iker can wait, wait with patience hard earned through pain, wait for the tide to wash in once more, knowing that when it does, once again he will be whole.
+++
They arrive separately at the restaurant. There was never any question of where they would eat. His favorite place, he must have his favorite everything while he is here; there cannot be any bad memories of this day snatched in this city he has come to love. Everything must be the best for him, and here, they will treat him like family, a beloved son come home, a familiar presence at their table. And there will be a private room, in the back, and they will not be disturbed, so that all of them can relax and enjoy each other’s company, but him most especially.
Iker’s eyes leap to him, the second he enters. He threads his way across the restaurant, casting a spell as he goes, and everyone is drawn to him; but only Iker never needed a spell, could not tear his eyes away, even if his everything depended on it.
He makes his way around the circle of friendly faces, of teammates, and to him this word means home far more than any building or country or any other tie man could devise. He caresses shoulders, kisses cheeks, pleased, beyond pleased to be here, among them again, and it’s been long, too long, and they all feel it.
And he finally reaches the end of the circle, the moon drawn in its full orbit inevitably back to where it started again, back to the cradle of the embrace of the earth. He slides in to his seat next to Iker, and no one would think to separate them, no one could separate them, even if they wanted to. Silent messages are shared between eyes, and the earth does not need words to communicate with her moon. They both feel it, every single dram of the pull between them, and inexorably their lips come together, the caress of the tide sliding across the silken smooth sand of the beach.
The laughing happy men around them ignore them, as if kisses between this keeper and this midfielder are common enough occurrences as to be completely unremarkable, which they are. But they have not been common at all, in the past year, and like the tide held out too long, when it finally returns, there is power, and force, and the impossibility of control.
They smile at eat together, hands outside of each other’s clothes out of respect for the company, but under the beneficent protection of the table, hands never leave thighs, never stop moving, stroking, gripping, the strength in fingers the only outward sign of how tightly leashed the desire runs.
When they leave, they leave separately, for Iker does not trust himself to behave with anything approaching decorum, under the camera’s unforgiving lights. He returns to his apartment, knowing he will be there, knowing he still carries Iker’s key with him everywhere he goes, a talisman, a charm, a reminder that if he needs to, if he has to, he can return here at absolutely any time, and the door will always open for him.
The door closes, and they come together with the brutal force of waves smashing down on the beach, with the strongest of tides, and Iker knows that once the water retreats, the beach will be completely re-shaped, completely unable to return to how it was before. But he does not mourn the passing of his previous self, for that is why the beach exists, to be shaped and re-shaped, over and over again for all eternity, to perpetually show every single caress and touch of the water to the world.
And as he comes he breathes the name of the one who has taken him, emptied him out, and remade him in the image of their union together-
“David.”
.
Author: last_panda
Pairing: David/Iker
Rating: soft R for innuendo
Word count: ~1,120
Disclaimer: this is an entirely fictional story with fictional characters. Any resemblance to real life is a coincidence.
Summery: one Easter Sunday, one moment snatched in the perpetual dance of the orbit of two men
Notes: a drabble dashed off for my love adorerdollylux, because she was disappointed there were no pictures of David and Iker *together* when he went out for dinner in Madrid with his teammates. It’s not much, but I hope it pleases.
“Iker”
Even just the sound of his voice is so good it’s painful, and Iker wonders again, as he has a million times before, how he has survived these years, (god, has it already been over a year? Really?) with what feels like a gaping hole ripped out of his chest, a hole that can only ever be filled by one thing.
“Vic’s already taken the boys back to LA; they have to be back for school. American schools don’t do Easter breaks like we do.”
We. We Europeans. We, you and me. Us. Even the simplest sentences, carried over countless miles by digital singles, contain enormous pitfalls, traps from which Iker does not think he can ever extract himself.
“Easter is for spending with family-”
Don’t think about that word, don’t think don’t think don’t think-
“So I’m coming to Madrid.”
In one single moment, perfection.
+++
Iker tries to focus, tries not to let his eyes stray to where he knows he’s sitting in the stands. There is an almost constant flurry though, that conspires to draw his eye- people coming up, asking for an autograph, a photo, just to shake his hand. They love him, still, even after all the time he’s been gone. Everybody loves him, they always will.
Iker’s heart swells with happiness, and fierce fierce pride. He deserves all the love the people can give him, every single iota of it-
And Iker was lying if he said it was the flurry of movement that drew his eye. Even in perfect stillness, even in the dark, with nothing visible except the faintest gleam of light reflected of a faint sheen of sweat from a cooling body, Iker’s eye will always be inoxerably drawn, drawn to him.
He is Iker’s loadstone, Iker’s magnetic pole, drawing him always and forever, like a compass needle, to point North. North towards England, towards three lions on a breast, towards a man who will always and forever remain to him Captain, no matter what the armbands say, no matter that Iker is Captain in his own right; there will always only be one captain for Iker’s heart. Iker can no more escape this than the moon can escape earth’s gravity; can not want to escape, for where would the beauty and the poetry of the tides be, without the gentle tug and dance of give and take between the earth and her moon?
But that dance can only be complete if the moon tugs back, and so Iker tugs his eyes away, back to the game, to unimportant things. But the dance of the tide would not be possible without each individual grain of sand: separately, they are meaningless, but all together they form the tapestry of a life, spent washing in and out.
And Iker can wait, wait with patience hard earned through pain, wait for the tide to wash in once more, knowing that when it does, once again he will be whole.
+++
They arrive separately at the restaurant. There was never any question of where they would eat. His favorite place, he must have his favorite everything while he is here; there cannot be any bad memories of this day snatched in this city he has come to love. Everything must be the best for him, and here, they will treat him like family, a beloved son come home, a familiar presence at their table. And there will be a private room, in the back, and they will not be disturbed, so that all of them can relax and enjoy each other’s company, but him most especially.
Iker’s eyes leap to him, the second he enters. He threads his way across the restaurant, casting a spell as he goes, and everyone is drawn to him; but only Iker never needed a spell, could not tear his eyes away, even if his everything depended on it.
He makes his way around the circle of friendly faces, of teammates, and to him this word means home far more than any building or country or any other tie man could devise. He caresses shoulders, kisses cheeks, pleased, beyond pleased to be here, among them again, and it’s been long, too long, and they all feel it.
And he finally reaches the end of the circle, the moon drawn in its full orbit inevitably back to where it started again, back to the cradle of the embrace of the earth. He slides in to his seat next to Iker, and no one would think to separate them, no one could separate them, even if they wanted to. Silent messages are shared between eyes, and the earth does not need words to communicate with her moon. They both feel it, every single dram of the pull between them, and inexorably their lips come together, the caress of the tide sliding across the silken smooth sand of the beach.
The laughing happy men around them ignore them, as if kisses between this keeper and this midfielder are common enough occurrences as to be completely unremarkable, which they are. But they have not been common at all, in the past year, and like the tide held out too long, when it finally returns, there is power, and force, and the impossibility of control.
They smile at eat together, hands outside of each other’s clothes out of respect for the company, but under the beneficent protection of the table, hands never leave thighs, never stop moving, stroking, gripping, the strength in fingers the only outward sign of how tightly leashed the desire runs.
When they leave, they leave separately, for Iker does not trust himself to behave with anything approaching decorum, under the camera’s unforgiving lights. He returns to his apartment, knowing he will be there, knowing he still carries Iker’s key with him everywhere he goes, a talisman, a charm, a reminder that if he needs to, if he has to, he can return here at absolutely any time, and the door will always open for him.
The door closes, and they come together with the brutal force of waves smashing down on the beach, with the strongest of tides, and Iker knows that once the water retreats, the beach will be completely re-shaped, completely unable to return to how it was before. But he does not mourn the passing of his previous self, for that is why the beach exists, to be shaped and re-shaped, over and over again for all eternity, to perpetually show every single caress and touch of the water to the world.
And as he comes he breathes the name of the one who has taken him, emptied him out, and remade him in the image of their union together-
“David.”
.