rpf: here am i like your shadow is: cristiano ronaldo: (1/1)
title; here am i like your shadow is
author; fiveto_midnight
rating; pg
fandom; football rpf
warnings; none
pairing(s); gen, cristiano-centric (might be a little implied cris/kaká pre-slash if you squint)
word count; 927
disclaimer; nope. don't own a thing here.
notes; sjkfd I know I suck lmfao it was supposed to be only cris-centric but apparently I was stuck on doing otherwise. It’s still cris-centric and meant to be longer!! But here it is anyway, for verses because she’s an amazing girl and wanted cris fic, so I really hope you like it bb! title from kent's rödljus ii (redlights ii), summary from another song of theirs, elite.
summary; and i’ll return the fire if I can get you here, i’ll keep the fire in a song for our elite (set in a slightly alternate universe, but after this summer, no specific time or game)
He doesn’t score. Not tonight either.
Karim thrusts his fingers through his hair, gives Cristiano half a smile and says it’ll come back. It’ll always come back. Marcelo slings and arm around his shoulders on the way down to the locker room. Cristiano doesn’t feel he wants anything to do with it-like he doesn’t quite deserve to have it there.
He bows down, the laces of his boots slipping between his fingers. Sighs, like it’s inevitable. He hears the question, “you coming with us tonight?” and he should say yes, should congratulate Karim and shit talk with the boys and sing along to some cheesy pop tune in some dark club.
But there’s something stopping him, a weariness of sorts, that sigh. “Sorry man, just not feeling it,” he passes, and hopes it works. He rolls his shoulders, feels the shirt stick to his skin. Tonight, Cristiano doesn’t see it as well earned, tonight it’s more like a subtle burden.
“C’mon, all know it’s just temporary. You just got back from injury! It’s not like they expected a hat trick from tonight, you know?” Marcelo says through the fabric of his jersey as he wriggles out of it. But Cristiano knows that’s what they do, and temporary has a habit of becoming long term.
He slings a towel around his hips and tries-wills, away the ache that settles in his ankle when he steers step towards the showers. It’s psychological, just a mental barrier.
Just.
He still doesn’t come out with them.
“I’m beat,” he offers as a means of explanation once again. It’s accepted, and Karim, hero, as hailed rightly by the Bernabéu for tonight, is already calling firsts on Sergio down the hallway.
Cristiano probably calls firsts on his bed, as soon as he’s forced the keycard through the lock and kicked off his shoes- already halfway onto the mattress.
He can’t remember how the hell his clothes came off but somehow they just did and he feels like maybe the world isn’t weighing down on his shoulders completely (he tries not to think of it at all) when he puts on the white shirt again for the next game.
Before that game, Cristiano visits Ricardo. Or perhaps both visit each other at the same time. It’s grey and stale but despite everything he feels like he maybe might be able to do it.
Ricardo is involved in an easy conversation in the locker room with Xabi, resting his back against the wall, nimbly sitting on a bench farther into the room. His spine is curled warily however; enough for Cristiano to notice that something is still not right, still faulty, despite what Ricardo will inevitably reassure him of.
It’s not like Cristiano doesn’t do exactly just the same when Ricardo asks.
He sits down next to the Brazilian and - perhaps unconsciously so, tries to be extra careful. He doesn’t realize it until he does. Ricardo doesn’t call him out on it.
“Take a shower, you smell,” he offers instead, and his smile is bright and sunny and such a contrast. Always.
Cristiano snorts, but can’t not smile. He presses a hug into Ricardo’s shoulder despite the feeble attempts by said to push him off, still complaining about his state of uncleanliness.
Cristiano doesn’t attempt to turn on the radio. Seaside rolls past after awhile and he’s not even sure why the seaside, it contrasts to the centre heart of Madrid so, but they’re simply just there.
Ricardo has trailed off talking about Caroline and Luca and Cristiano almost wants to usher him to continue, continue, so it doesn’t have to be the kind of quiet that gives him the time to mull over personal things.
“Do you think it’s just a slump?” Cristiano blurts out, eyes tracking the road firmly, refusing to jump to Ricardo immediately after. The Brazilian turns his head however, in his peripheral, and Cristiano can feel his eyes on the side of his face.
“Is it?” Ricardo replies, startling. And when Cristiano looks at him he looks like he truly believes what he’s not saying.
Cristiano smiles, not just a half tug of lips, but real, a wide one.
The ball slides wrong off of his boot; Cristiano feels it beforehand, how the angle is thrown off. In the lone heartbeat of a moment where his real heartbeat thuds too hard and too fast against his ribs, where he tries to reach-
He doesn’t know the next thing, until the oxygen is pushed out of his lungs and he’s squeezed too tightly against several other bodies. Maybe there’s a fist connecting wrong with his chest, maybe his shoulder is forced in the wrong direction, but absolutely none of it matters as the Bernabeu rises as an overwhelming force of sound all around him, and Cristiano knows he scored.
It’s not perfect, but it is a goal, and by the time Sergio has finished burying his face in Cristiano’s sweat slippery skin and mumbled all of his congratulations until he has no more, and Gonzalo has let him go and Marcelo has stopped shouting by his ear. Then Cristiano lets go of the mass of bodies he tries to reach around all at the same time, and he doesn’t quite want to, and he feels it.
Like he can breathe just a beat easier. And like the number seven doesn’t stick to his shoulder blades in the wrong way and like maybe Ricardo saw the goal, that he’s out of it, that it’s not quite as heavy, today, anymore.
author; fiveto_midnight
rating; pg
fandom; football rpf
warnings; none
pairing(s); gen, cristiano-centric (might be a little implied cris/kaká pre-slash if you squint)
word count; 927
disclaimer; nope. don't own a thing here.
notes; sjkfd I know I suck lmfao it was supposed to be only cris-centric but apparently I was stuck on doing otherwise. It’s still cris-centric and meant to be longer!! But here it is anyway, for verses because she’s an amazing girl and wanted cris fic, so I really hope you like it bb! title from kent's rödljus ii (redlights ii), summary from another song of theirs, elite.
summary; and i’ll return the fire if I can get you here, i’ll keep the fire in a song for our elite (set in a slightly alternate universe, but after this summer, no specific time or game)
He doesn’t score. Not tonight either.
Karim thrusts his fingers through his hair, gives Cristiano half a smile and says it’ll come back. It’ll always come back. Marcelo slings and arm around his shoulders on the way down to the locker room. Cristiano doesn’t feel he wants anything to do with it-like he doesn’t quite deserve to have it there.
He bows down, the laces of his boots slipping between his fingers. Sighs, like it’s inevitable. He hears the question, “you coming with us tonight?” and he should say yes, should congratulate Karim and shit talk with the boys and sing along to some cheesy pop tune in some dark club.
But there’s something stopping him, a weariness of sorts, that sigh. “Sorry man, just not feeling it,” he passes, and hopes it works. He rolls his shoulders, feels the shirt stick to his skin. Tonight, Cristiano doesn’t see it as well earned, tonight it’s more like a subtle burden.
“C’mon, all know it’s just temporary. You just got back from injury! It’s not like they expected a hat trick from tonight, you know?” Marcelo says through the fabric of his jersey as he wriggles out of it. But Cristiano knows that’s what they do, and temporary has a habit of becoming long term.
He slings a towel around his hips and tries-wills, away the ache that settles in his ankle when he steers step towards the showers. It’s psychological, just a mental barrier.
Just.
He still doesn’t come out with them.
“I’m beat,” he offers as a means of explanation once again. It’s accepted, and Karim, hero, as hailed rightly by the Bernabéu for tonight, is already calling firsts on Sergio down the hallway.
Cristiano probably calls firsts on his bed, as soon as he’s forced the keycard through the lock and kicked off his shoes- already halfway onto the mattress.
He can’t remember how the hell his clothes came off but somehow they just did and he feels like maybe the world isn’t weighing down on his shoulders completely (he tries not to think of it at all) when he puts on the white shirt again for the next game.
Before that game, Cristiano visits Ricardo. Or perhaps both visit each other at the same time. It’s grey and stale but despite everything he feels like he maybe might be able to do it.
Ricardo is involved in an easy conversation in the locker room with Xabi, resting his back against the wall, nimbly sitting on a bench farther into the room. His spine is curled warily however; enough for Cristiano to notice that something is still not right, still faulty, despite what Ricardo will inevitably reassure him of.
It’s not like Cristiano doesn’t do exactly just the same when Ricardo asks.
He sits down next to the Brazilian and - perhaps unconsciously so, tries to be extra careful. He doesn’t realize it until he does. Ricardo doesn’t call him out on it.
“Take a shower, you smell,” he offers instead, and his smile is bright and sunny and such a contrast. Always.
Cristiano snorts, but can’t not smile. He presses a hug into Ricardo’s shoulder despite the feeble attempts by said to push him off, still complaining about his state of uncleanliness.
Cristiano doesn’t attempt to turn on the radio. Seaside rolls past after awhile and he’s not even sure why the seaside, it contrasts to the centre heart of Madrid so, but they’re simply just there.
Ricardo has trailed off talking about Caroline and Luca and Cristiano almost wants to usher him to continue, continue, so it doesn’t have to be the kind of quiet that gives him the time to mull over personal things.
“Do you think it’s just a slump?” Cristiano blurts out, eyes tracking the road firmly, refusing to jump to Ricardo immediately after. The Brazilian turns his head however, in his peripheral, and Cristiano can feel his eyes on the side of his face.
“Is it?” Ricardo replies, startling. And when Cristiano looks at him he looks like he truly believes what he’s not saying.
Cristiano smiles, not just a half tug of lips, but real, a wide one.
The ball slides wrong off of his boot; Cristiano feels it beforehand, how the angle is thrown off. In the lone heartbeat of a moment where his real heartbeat thuds too hard and too fast against his ribs, where he tries to reach-
He doesn’t know the next thing, until the oxygen is pushed out of his lungs and he’s squeezed too tightly against several other bodies. Maybe there’s a fist connecting wrong with his chest, maybe his shoulder is forced in the wrong direction, but absolutely none of it matters as the Bernabeu rises as an overwhelming force of sound all around him, and Cristiano knows he scored.
It’s not perfect, but it is a goal, and by the time Sergio has finished burying his face in Cristiano’s sweat slippery skin and mumbled all of his congratulations until he has no more, and Gonzalo has let him go and Marcelo has stopped shouting by his ear. Then Cristiano lets go of the mass of bodies he tries to reach around all at the same time, and he doesn’t quite want to, and he feels it.
Like he can breathe just a beat easier. And like the number seven doesn’t stick to his shoulder blades in the wrong way and like maybe Ricardo saw the goal, that he’s out of it, that it’s not quite as heavy, today, anymore.