(no subject)
Superman (Andres Iniesta/Unspecified)
Title: Superman
Pairing: Andres Iniesta/Unspecified
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Some happened, others didn’t. Not quite sure why I was so fascinated by these daft little celebrations but I was, and I just have such fond affection for that daft boy.
Word Count: 1604
(*)
Of late, they’ve called him ‘Superman’.
To Chelsea, he was a tiny rock cast, a thorn in their side. They were the ones that were krypton-green with envy as his body disappeared beneath a sea of yellow, as sun-coloured waves crashed down upon him in joyous euphoria.
He walked so tall, that day, that ‘kid’ with the world at his feet in the shape of a white leather ball.
He reached so high.
In reality he’s Clark Kent, a shy and awkward boy who speaks in hushed tones with his eyes cast downwards and whose words spread out for miles. So few they are, so far between.
Small, he is, a pocket full of Kryptonite wearing a costume of red and blue and tonight he’s Superman, with a blaugrana ‘cape’ tied around his neck, a flag hanging loosely around his waist.
Like a decorated veteran, he wears his colours proudly as he stands within this procession; this celebration of all things red and blue.
The stadium is full to the brim. Flashing lights and rapturous voices go in unison as the fans all bask in the glory of these past few days and he stumbles around, merrily confused by it all.
He’s been so long unsung that this is a concerto, a symphony in his name, in all of your names. Temporarily out of his shell, Andres sings beautifully - unveiled, glowing, unmasked and revealed to the world.
You’ve seen him all along.
(*)
He wears his shirt backwards. His number, it’s close to his heart, emblazoned proudly across his chest as if he’s finally arrived.
“This is me,” he seems to be saying, as he stands out from the crowd so unexpectedly. “Don’t forget my name,” as if anyone could.
There’s no explanation for the scarf around his head, a quirk, perhaps - a mode of expression for one so shy and reserved because this is a special night, the pinnacle of a special time.
His clothes scream out for him to be seen. Heard.
You’ve been hearing him for years.
His eyes find yours somehow, grasping outwards in the evening light. He holds your gaze for a few seconds and you smile at him. He smiles back before nervously looking away because even Superman has his weakness.
You’ve always been it just as he has always been yours.
(*)
You don’t expect him to address his adoring public, not like this, but this is his giant theatre and he’s wearing a costume fit for the stage.
He takes to that stage, a tiny speck of a thing fuelled by celebratory champagne. He doesn’t know what to say and so he says what comes to mind, few words but meaningful, each ending syllable raised as if he’s expecting a response.
‘His public’ greet him with joyful applause as they raise him high in spirit. You smile at how his awkwardness still shines through.
He’s elevated sky-high, but their hero can’t fly.
They charge him down, catching him unawares. Such young men, such boys, despite everything. You hear him yelp momentarily before that sounds turns into a gleeful expression of excitement as they scoop him up in their arms and throw him skyward like a child.
His arms flail upwards as if he’s attempting to touch the stars yet he’s already astronomical. You’ve always seen a true star whenever you looked at him; one that shines brightly yet is perfectly satisfied to pale in comparison to the beautiful constellation that surrounds him.
If Leo is the sun then Andres is the moon, pale white yet glimmering in a vast, open sky.
They bring him back down to Earth and the first thing he looks for is you, large eyes scouring the place for your own, settling only when he sees them.
You ground him.
You Earth him, and he knows that.
(*)
You watch.
You watch his arms wrap around Victor’s neck as he steadies himself, a small boy next to a big, strong man. For years, you’ve watched how he’s ran to Victor, ‘brother’, gran amigo. For years, you’ve envied it, that closeness, the ‘counsel kept’ between them because Andres needed protecting at times. That tiny twelve-year-old that he used to be rears his head sometimes and the body and mind remember.
They remember the fourteen-year-old boy that grew up to be Victor; the one that cursed down those ‘ghost’ insults that Andres endured; the one with the confidence and the sensitivity to know that he had to preserve the child.
You’ve watched how Victor holds protective, defensive arms around him and how Andres has remained within them at times, growing there, maturing, developing, thickening his skin. The barriers all fall down around Victor. ‘Superman’ reveals himself to that man with the sculpted, plated chest and how Victor will smile, victorious.
You can’t explain the pang in your chest when you see them like this yet when he stumbles into your arms it settles it’s as if the arrow is removed and the blood is allowed to flow freely again.
You slip your hands underneath his ‘cape’ and steady him by pulling him close to you.
“Andres,” you say, speaking his name, and it sounds so good coming from your mouth.
You’re strangely surprised that his heart still beats the same, despite everything, despite this change, despite the world finally opening their eyes.
You’re strangely surprised that nothing is different.
“Sorry,” he says, his voice a metallic tink of a sound, so youthful, so fresh, so uncharacteristically flighty. “Dizzy.”
He laughs, so inadvertently enchanting, and you hold him steady to keep him from flying away again.
When you look into his eyes, so raw and honest, it’s like a revelation of sorts and when he says your name it’s like an intoxicated prayer.
You’ve been here before. Nobody knows it but you have.
He touches your face and it’s all too familiar.
“I’ve missed you,” he says, because it’s been awhile, and you wonder if you are his kryptonite just as he is the opposition’s.
His body is like liquid in your arms and you want to drink him in but the whole world is watching. Behind you there are fireworks but it’s nothing to do with this.
It’s nothing to do with him.
You suddenly curse the exposure as he stares at you owlishly, drawn to your lips, his eyes resting upon them as if he’s waiting for invitation.
He’s so vulnerable. And, you’re too professional.
“Go on,” you tell him. “Enjoy your night while it lasts. Drink in the moment. Celebrate.”
“But, what…” he begins, but you place a finger over his mouth and hush him gently.
“Later,” you tell him, and then you set him free.
(*)
The party continues on into the evening.
You try not to look his way but you can feel his eyes burning into you, x-ray vision, and you wonder if he can see inside of you.
You wonder if he likes what he sees, his name in lights, always his name.
You finally turn to glance at him but he’s gone; someone else’s hero, for the moment, someone else’s caped crusader.
You see him hugging Leo and it’s like an eclipse, to you - beautiful, in a way.
(*)
Afterwards, you finally expose him, not to the world but to yourself. The world has seen enough of him, this dashing young prince that doesn’t quite fit in the celebrity world; this bona fide saviour that never stood out until now.
He’s always stood out to you.
You recognised his qualities even before he donned the cape.
You take him by the arm and he sighs, leaning against you in this plush hotel room with velvet-red curtains drawn tight, keeping out the prying eyes of the adoring world.
He kisses your jaw-line without invitation, soft lips against unshaven skin, rough against smooth. He’s never this open. Shy, so shy, he is, that it’s difficult to draw out words, at times, but now he’s singing proudly.
Singing your name, your praises and your affections.
He tells you that you taste like champagne and you laugh, wondering if he could possibly taste anything else right now.
He tastes sweet, always, a strange taste with nothing quite like it because there’s nothing quite like him.
“This party’s better,” he tells you, because he was never one for crowds.
He’s peeling away the layers without prompting, now, eyeing you for approval with such vulnerability that you see he’s no Superman.
He’s just himself. Just one and the same.
He’s just your Andres who never wants to fly alone.
“How did it feel,” you ask him, “hearing them all singing your name like that?”
“Never as good as when you sing it,” he replies, capturing your lips as they begin to mouth the same, swallowing your exclamation, your affirmation.
He’s heard enough. Praise, he says, makes him weak - yet, you make him strong.
You empower him, he tells you, over and over again.
Somehow, this small, awkward, shy young man - he empowers you.
Underneath it all there are no metal plates. There is no steel endoskeleton within this body, fragile as it is, of late, through injury and hard work.
You touch the lines of his chest and you see that he’s only human, with marks and scars just like anybody else. There are battle wounds and game-acquired bruises, grazes where he’s taken one for the team.
One by one you kiss them all, those little blemishes, those little imperfections that make him real.
He’s real. And he’s yours.
Let them have their Superman, you think.
You just want the man.
Title: Superman
Pairing: Andres Iniesta/Unspecified
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Some happened, others didn’t. Not quite sure why I was so fascinated by these daft little celebrations but I was, and I just have such fond affection for that daft boy.
Word Count: 1604
(*)
Of late, they’ve called him ‘Superman’.
To Chelsea, he was a tiny rock cast, a thorn in their side. They were the ones that were krypton-green with envy as his body disappeared beneath a sea of yellow, as sun-coloured waves crashed down upon him in joyous euphoria.
He walked so tall, that day, that ‘kid’ with the world at his feet in the shape of a white leather ball.
He reached so high.
In reality he’s Clark Kent, a shy and awkward boy who speaks in hushed tones with his eyes cast downwards and whose words spread out for miles. So few they are, so far between.
Small, he is, a pocket full of Kryptonite wearing a costume of red and blue and tonight he’s Superman, with a blaugrana ‘cape’ tied around his neck, a flag hanging loosely around his waist.
Like a decorated veteran, he wears his colours proudly as he stands within this procession; this celebration of all things red and blue.
The stadium is full to the brim. Flashing lights and rapturous voices go in unison as the fans all bask in the glory of these past few days and he stumbles around, merrily confused by it all.
He’s been so long unsung that this is a concerto, a symphony in his name, in all of your names. Temporarily out of his shell, Andres sings beautifully - unveiled, glowing, unmasked and revealed to the world.
You’ve seen him all along.
(*)
He wears his shirt backwards. His number, it’s close to his heart, emblazoned proudly across his chest as if he’s finally arrived.
“This is me,” he seems to be saying, as he stands out from the crowd so unexpectedly. “Don’t forget my name,” as if anyone could.
There’s no explanation for the scarf around his head, a quirk, perhaps - a mode of expression for one so shy and reserved because this is a special night, the pinnacle of a special time.
His clothes scream out for him to be seen. Heard.
You’ve been hearing him for years.
His eyes find yours somehow, grasping outwards in the evening light. He holds your gaze for a few seconds and you smile at him. He smiles back before nervously looking away because even Superman has his weakness.
You’ve always been it just as he has always been yours.
(*)
You don’t expect him to address his adoring public, not like this, but this is his giant theatre and he’s wearing a costume fit for the stage.
He takes to that stage, a tiny speck of a thing fuelled by celebratory champagne. He doesn’t know what to say and so he says what comes to mind, few words but meaningful, each ending syllable raised as if he’s expecting a response.
‘His public’ greet him with joyful applause as they raise him high in spirit. You smile at how his awkwardness still shines through.
He’s elevated sky-high, but their hero can’t fly.
They charge him down, catching him unawares. Such young men, such boys, despite everything. You hear him yelp momentarily before that sounds turns into a gleeful expression of excitement as they scoop him up in their arms and throw him skyward like a child.
His arms flail upwards as if he’s attempting to touch the stars yet he’s already astronomical. You’ve always seen a true star whenever you looked at him; one that shines brightly yet is perfectly satisfied to pale in comparison to the beautiful constellation that surrounds him.
If Leo is the sun then Andres is the moon, pale white yet glimmering in a vast, open sky.
They bring him back down to Earth and the first thing he looks for is you, large eyes scouring the place for your own, settling only when he sees them.
You ground him.
You Earth him, and he knows that.
(*)
You watch.
You watch his arms wrap around Victor’s neck as he steadies himself, a small boy next to a big, strong man. For years, you’ve watched how he’s ran to Victor, ‘brother’, gran amigo. For years, you’ve envied it, that closeness, the ‘counsel kept’ between them because Andres needed protecting at times. That tiny twelve-year-old that he used to be rears his head sometimes and the body and mind remember.
They remember the fourteen-year-old boy that grew up to be Victor; the one that cursed down those ‘ghost’ insults that Andres endured; the one with the confidence and the sensitivity to know that he had to preserve the child.
You’ve watched how Victor holds protective, defensive arms around him and how Andres has remained within them at times, growing there, maturing, developing, thickening his skin. The barriers all fall down around Victor. ‘Superman’ reveals himself to that man with the sculpted, plated chest and how Victor will smile, victorious.
You can’t explain the pang in your chest when you see them like this yet when he stumbles into your arms it settles it’s as if the arrow is removed and the blood is allowed to flow freely again.
You slip your hands underneath his ‘cape’ and steady him by pulling him close to you.
“Andres,” you say, speaking his name, and it sounds so good coming from your mouth.
You’re strangely surprised that his heart still beats the same, despite everything, despite this change, despite the world finally opening their eyes.
You’re strangely surprised that nothing is different.
“Sorry,” he says, his voice a metallic tink of a sound, so youthful, so fresh, so uncharacteristically flighty. “Dizzy.”
He laughs, so inadvertently enchanting, and you hold him steady to keep him from flying away again.
When you look into his eyes, so raw and honest, it’s like a revelation of sorts and when he says your name it’s like an intoxicated prayer.
You’ve been here before. Nobody knows it but you have.
He touches your face and it’s all too familiar.
“I’ve missed you,” he says, because it’s been awhile, and you wonder if you are his kryptonite just as he is the opposition’s.
His body is like liquid in your arms and you want to drink him in but the whole world is watching. Behind you there are fireworks but it’s nothing to do with this.
It’s nothing to do with him.
You suddenly curse the exposure as he stares at you owlishly, drawn to your lips, his eyes resting upon them as if he’s waiting for invitation.
He’s so vulnerable. And, you’re too professional.
“Go on,” you tell him. “Enjoy your night while it lasts. Drink in the moment. Celebrate.”
“But, what…” he begins, but you place a finger over his mouth and hush him gently.
“Later,” you tell him, and then you set him free.
(*)
The party continues on into the evening.
You try not to look his way but you can feel his eyes burning into you, x-ray vision, and you wonder if he can see inside of you.
You wonder if he likes what he sees, his name in lights, always his name.
You finally turn to glance at him but he’s gone; someone else’s hero, for the moment, someone else’s caped crusader.
You see him hugging Leo and it’s like an eclipse, to you - beautiful, in a way.
(*)
Afterwards, you finally expose him, not to the world but to yourself. The world has seen enough of him, this dashing young prince that doesn’t quite fit in the celebrity world; this bona fide saviour that never stood out until now.
He’s always stood out to you.
You recognised his qualities even before he donned the cape.
You take him by the arm and he sighs, leaning against you in this plush hotel room with velvet-red curtains drawn tight, keeping out the prying eyes of the adoring world.
He kisses your jaw-line without invitation, soft lips against unshaven skin, rough against smooth. He’s never this open. Shy, so shy, he is, that it’s difficult to draw out words, at times, but now he’s singing proudly.
Singing your name, your praises and your affections.
He tells you that you taste like champagne and you laugh, wondering if he could possibly taste anything else right now.
He tastes sweet, always, a strange taste with nothing quite like it because there’s nothing quite like him.
“This party’s better,” he tells you, because he was never one for crowds.
He’s peeling away the layers without prompting, now, eyeing you for approval with such vulnerability that you see he’s no Superman.
He’s just himself. Just one and the same.
He’s just your Andres who never wants to fly alone.
“How did it feel,” you ask him, “hearing them all singing your name like that?”
“Never as good as when you sing it,” he replies, capturing your lips as they begin to mouth the same, swallowing your exclamation, your affirmation.
He’s heard enough. Praise, he says, makes him weak - yet, you make him strong.
You empower him, he tells you, over and over again.
Somehow, this small, awkward, shy young man - he empowers you.
Underneath it all there are no metal plates. There is no steel endoskeleton within this body, fragile as it is, of late, through injury and hard work.
You touch the lines of his chest and you see that he’s only human, with marks and scars just like anybody else. There are battle wounds and game-acquired bruises, grazes where he’s taken one for the team.
One by one you kiss them all, those little blemishes, those little imperfections that make him real.
He’s real. And he’s yours.
Let them have their Superman, you think.
You just want the man.