30

[frecklesandink]

title: heartbreaker
characters: various
word count: around 9.5k all up?
rating: various.
disclaimer: not real, never has been, never will be, etc al.
author’s notes: prompts for my f-listers. first off, you guys are a sick bunch of masochists. i had so many emo prompts; it was unbelievable. i was in such a happy mood when i started these, and by the end i wanted to kill myself. y’all need to listen to some hannah montana fo srs.

enjoy and comment, please. :)

stevie/xabi for telpedacilwen.


through the storm we reach the shore; you give it all but i want more, and i'm waiting for you.

xabi sits behind his car, his back leaning against the wheel, lighting a cigarette and letting it sit between his fingers. he can hear fernando in hysterics three cars down as pepe tells him of the latest from madrid, and carra arguing with his wife on the phone. xabi’s eyes close and he smiles. it’s not as if he’s waiting to hear the scouse that creates an uncomfortable twist in his stomach, but…well. it’s been four years. he got what he want, but he’s still waiting. for what, he’s not really sure. maybe an “i love you” once in a while. just more than a hand on the small of his back and searching blue eyes every training session. he just wants more.

lay beside me, tell me what i've done; the door is closed, so are your eyes.

stevie feels dirty when he lies next to xabi on his bed, not speaking. xabi smells like he used to, and stevie can’t help but be ashamed of what he’s become. nothing moves, bar their chests, up and down (and their hearts, always in tune, even though they don’t recognize it anymore) - xabi doesn’t want to say what he knows is true, and stevie isn’t strong enough to admit what he did. they’ve been dying for years now, and it’s make or break time. stevie finally rolls over and takes xabi’s hand, pressing it against his chest, his blue eyes clear and innocent. xabi’s eyes flutter closed as stevie moves closer, kissing him. he can’t help but wonder if this is the end. if every ending is as sweet as this, he thinks, as xabi takes his shirt off and presses kisses down his torso, then maybe he’ll be okay.

as i’m swimming through this stereo, i'm writing you a symphony of sound.

he arrives at xabi’s house barely ten minutes after the phone call is made, and he takes the steps two at a time to get to his door. it’s thrown open by a man with blonde hair and blue eyes, flushed cheeks and tensed breathing, and stevie shoves past him and into the lounge room. “xabi,” he gasps out, the picture of his lover standing in front of him, his back to the door and a cd in hand, his neck turned and eyes wide with surprise. “stevie? what are you-” he begins, but stevie’s arms are around him and his mouth is covering xabi’s and he’s sighing with joy as the cd falls to the floor.

i’ve seen some years, but you're still my caesar. with everything i feel, i feel you've already been here - the only difference is, all i see is now all that i've seen.

has he become outdated and uninteresting? the play toy that kept el capitano amused for four years is now replaced with a younger model, much prettier, androgynous…freckled. has his classic looks, upturned mouth, pouted lips, simplicity and sureness in his movements, is it all being replaced for something more? pepe merely laughs. xabi’s fingers drum the table and he sips his coffee (too strong, he notes, if that’s such a thing) as oasis play in the background. he feels old.

my mother never told me love is just a blood sport.

when he was little, love had been a phenomenon that was above his control and a concept beyond his years. all he knew was that the love between his parents had created him, and that his parents would do anything for him. he didn’t know of the fights that would happen, and the weapons the other would use to try and win. he didn’t know of the word cheating, or what sort of pain it would bring. he didn’t know that love wasn’t just between a man and woman, or a son and parent. lying in bed, almost crippled from the pain in his chest, he wondered what he’d have to do to go back to those days. to remember what it was like to be ignorant, and free.

i broke someone’s heart again, someone you know.

nothing he can ever say will make it better, and he’s not one for trying to fix what’s not broken (or what’s so fucking broken it can’t be fixed). but sometimes he wishes that it was 2005 again, the season of magic (slow to start but thorough and clean, fresh, new), the season that things started to really happen for him. not 2008, where he’s exhausted to the point of dying, jaded to the point of wondering why he drags himself out of bed in the morning and hurting to the point of no return. the pain, knowing he’s hurting someone else even worse. it’s enough to send him right over the edge.

and maybe i'm too young to keep good love from going wrong, but tonight you're on my mind so you never know.

xabi squirms as stevie’s lips trace naughty patterns into his abs (“you’re getting too thin. come over more so alex can make pasta and get your curves back. you look like you’re getting an eating disorder,” he mouths against a hip, ducking a gentle blow. “i’m eating enough! and have you seen my bottom? you can take the boy out of spain, but you cannot take the spain out of a boy,” is the reply. stevie merely chuckles and his mouth moves lower), moving higher until he reaches the corner of xabi’s mouth, pressing soft kisses and softer words into the plump skin. “you’re mine, xabi.” the words send a shiver down xabi’s spine at the intensity, at the jealous rage coursing through them. xabi didn’t mean to look at alvaro like that, and he’s as sure as hell that alvaro didn’t have any sexual intensions when he jumped on him. he jumps on everyone. as for stevie? stevie didn’t care. xabi was his. if he had to beat it into alvaro to understand, well. he’d just have to beat it into him.

being naked and afraid in the open space of my bed.

it’s the lying in bed at night, alone. before a game, he has his own room. own space, as he’s told the cameras before, to get away from alex and the babies. xabi got him into a bad habit of sleeping naked (mostly because xabi really has no self-restraint whatsoever. he’s a horny fucker at the best of times, and he doesn’t even want to think about pre-season this year. his back hasn’t been right since), but he’s embraced it for the most part, and found it’s more conductive to a peaceful mind. stevie needs peace. doesn’t stop him feeling alone, though. without xabi lying in the bed next to him, snoring softly or talking about his day ahead, bright eyes in the moonlight.

i am my father's son; his bed is made. i was a hero early in the morning, i ain't no hero in the night.

the only people that can understand what it’s like to be the son of a footballer are the sons of footballers. nobody else will ever understand the pressure, even if your father is understanding and would prefer you to be an accountant or an unemployed babymaker. you feel obliged; like football is what you do, what you are. it’s your very being and existence, it’s your mind and soul. it’s why xabi and mikel play the game, and jon controls it. it’s why xabi escaped to england as soon as he could, and mikel followed as fast as he could. it’s why xabi wept when nagore gave birth and they announced it was a boy. “a boy,” he whispered, tears blurring his vision. “a boy,” he whispered to mikel, whose breath hitched in his throat and a silent prayer was said. “a boy,” he said to stevie, his eyes staring at his feet, squeezing them shut in the hopes stevie would wish him congratulations and move on. stevie says nothing, and xabi looks up and wishes he hadn’t.

stevie/xabi for sprox23


i want to know your plans, and how involved in them i am. when you leave for good this fall, will i be forgiven?

“i can’t take underachieving anymore, stevie. i can’t take it anymore. nagore wants to go home. i want to go home.”

stevie nods, praying desperately that xabi leaves before he starts crying.

not again oh jesus not again not xabi please please please not xabi don’t let him leave me too oh fuck fuck fuck no this isn’t happening fuck no no no anything i’ll do anything anything just don’t let him leave me as well fuck fuck fuck.

xabi knows what stevie is thinking, and he’ll never forgive himself for it. he’s stabbing stevie in the heart, in the soul, and he can see the life essence draining before his eyes. but xabi is a father now, a frustrated fútbolista, and he wants to go home. to barça, to be exact.

stevie just nods and xabi finally leaves. lets him drop to his knees and scream, scream as loud as he can. primal rage and fear and passion and an unbearable sadness; it takes over. xabi shakes as he walks, stevie’s screams echoing around the stadium. he drives, and doesn’t look back.

leo/bojan for bolanboogie.


i always hoped i'd build my world around you, and it's a miracle i ever found you.

leo traces a finger down bojan’s face, smiling at the sleeping boy in front of him. he wonders what he’s doing sometimes, with someone so young. then he remembers he’s not exactly old himself, and that he’s entitled to enjoy the company of someone who gets him as well as bojan does. if he didn’t know any better, he’d say he was falling in love. which was completely wrong and totally out of the question, but it was nice to entertain the idea. even just for now. (he knows he’s falling in love with bojan and won’t ever do anything against it. he’d die for bojan. and bojan would die for him. they’re a romeo and juliet in the making)

finns/agger for burningliz.


everytime we look at things it never seems to measure up, everytime we tore it down we lost so much.

daniel hasn’t ever been an optimistic person by nature. he knows he has what he has because he’s worked for it, and worked fucking hard to get there. finns just sort of…fell into his lap, in a manner of speaking. he didn’t have to work hard at all. in fact, falling in love with finns was probably the easiest thing he had ever done in his entire life. dealing with the love, however, was something far beyond his reach. he was too young, too passionate, too brash and too overwhelming for finns, who was getting older and was quiet by nature, amicable at the best of times. “if i hadn’t seen your passport with my own eyes, i’d never believe you were irish!” daniel recalled joking with finns, but it was true. he was like no other irishman he’d ever met. everyone knew the problems in their relationship started with daniel and ended with daniel - everything from being annoyed when finns was late for something, to being jealous over a conversation during training. it was destined to fail on that fact alone.

kiss in a shot and get started, we're turning into an easy target for something outrageous.

“dan,” steve managed to gasp, between his pants around his ankles and daniel’s hands darting in and out of dangerous places. daniel looked at him, his eyes flashing, his own pants loose around his waist. steve could only moan and grip dan’s arms tighter, his head thrown back. fuck the risk.

you could be the one i'll always love, you could be the one who listens to my deepest inquisitions.

there really was nobody else for either of them. nobody would put up with daniel’s shit long enough (finns had unwillingly participated in a two-hour conversation with nicklas bendtner on all things wrong with daniel and why he deserved to die), and finns needed just the right amount of brutish encouragement to make it through the day. and although they fought more than they loved (sometimes), daniel knows that if finns ever leaves him, nicklas will end up stabbing him. and finns knows that if daniel ever grows out of him, he won’t make it out of bed in the morning.

sernando for perfect__denial.


how can you just walk away from me, when all i can do is watch you leave? ‘cause we've shared the laughter and the pain, and even shared the tears. you're the only one who really knew me at all.

sergio is notorious for being overemotional. it’s part of his genetic make up, and the la selección boys learnt rather fast as per what were appropriate comments retarding anything about him. his hair and body always deemed something positive; his clothing something negative, so he had an excuse to strip off and change into something even more expensive; there was a response for everything and if the wrong one was given, fits of sulking, pouting, surliness and even tantrums were the inevitable result. fernando, however, knows it’s all just an act. and sergio likes the fact that fernando knows. maybe because when fernando fucks him and they come, and fernando tells him he loves him, it makes him feel special in a way that nobody else has managed to do, up until now. so when Fernando returns back from his holiday, cut short, and announces to the group that he’s going to england, everyone’s first thought is what sergio is going to do. will he throw a tantrum? will he cry? will he blackmail atléti’s president into making fernando stay? fernando himself is curious as per what the boy from sevilla will do. the boy from sevilla goes out clubbing, gets hammered and brings home a young blonde boy with freckles and tattoos, and prays fernando walks in on him. for the first time in his life, god disappoints and he does not, and it is then he allows himself to cry.

stevie/xabi for liverlass.


but on your knees, a thousand other boys could never reach you.

xabi is of the opinion that stevie gives the best blow jobs he’s ever had. not exactly something stevie could ever advertise, him being a married man and all, but xabi is constantly hinting at how talented his captain is. he’ll attend national meetings and wink at íker and tell david stories that border on the pornographic. it’s quite funny seeing the shock on his team mates’s faces - xabi isn’t usually one to tell overly personal information like this, sex life stuff. he’s usually the one jumping to the defence of whomever they’ve decided to pick on next (like the game against france, and sergio and Fernando double teamed on a ridiculously innocent bojan, whose face had turned so red xabi couldn’t tell where his kit ended and his head began). it’s nice to surprise people.

i've been treated so wrong, i've been treated so long- as if i'm becoming untouchable.

there’s an unspoken rule at liverpool. there are many, but the most important being that xabi alonso is untouchable. when you’re new and possibly bisexual and arriving at liverpool, rafa will talk you through the daily routines and match day happenings, you’ll sign the papers and talk to the press and take photos with a jersey and a scarf, and then attend your first training session. and while you’re changing into your training kit, meeting everyone and smiling so hard your cheeks hurt, one of the senior members, or even a reserve player that’s made the leap to the big leagues for that week, will take you aside and quietly fill you in on what’s going to happen. one - stevie has captain’s privileges, if you swing that way. he’s first, and after that you can do what you want (within reason). two - if you see something, hear something or even participate in something that is quite possibly morally or legally wrong, you speak of it to no-one. you pretend it never happened. three - if a team mates is involved in something troublesome, you help them get out of it, and protect them until the very end. traitors do not sit well at liverpool football club. and four - xabi alonso is off bounds. if you ask why, you won’t get an answer. just know that you can fuck anyone else but him. xabi might seem keen for it, but your life will be a lot easier if you just avoid him altogether.

there's a log on the fire, and it burns like me for you. tomorrow comes with one desire - to take me away…

“it’s so cold, stevie!” xabi whimpers as he hops from foot to foot, wrapping his thick jacket tighter around his small waist and blowing into his hands. stevie rolled his eyes and stoked the fire, sitting down on the log and motioning for xabi to join him. “fuck, stevie!” he gasped, sitting down and huddling close to his captain, who laughed and wrapped an arm around him. “I know you’d rather be in doors right now, but I think alex would have a coronary if I made a fire inside,” stevie explained. xabi glared at him. “you have heaps of fire places!” he shivered, pulling his beanie down lower over his ears and his scarf higher around his face. stevie rolled his eyes and took the spaniard’s hands. “look, I have a reason for bringing you here and making you freeze your bollocks off,” stevie began, grinning at xabi’s glares. “if you think I’m going to sex you outside, you have another thing coming!” he exclaimed, and stevie laughed. “I just wanted to tell you how much I love you, and am grateful you’re by my side every week,” he said, looking at his feet. xabi moved closer, the frigid wind blowing his fringe about and bringing out more red on his cheeks and nose, but the smile on his face had the power of another sun. “stevie,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to his lips, holding his gloved fingers between his own. stevie smiled, and wrapped an arm around him, watching the crackling of the fire. he hoped things could stay like this forever.

lebron james/kobe bryant for trishkiss_x.


and so i wrote you these words down for you to remember, for you to remember why…i love you.

kobe yawned, sitting down in front of his locker and pulling his shoes off. another day, another dollar. he turned behind him and grabbed his towel, pulling it onto his lap. a small piece of paper fluttered to the ground, and he frowned. looking around, he picked it up and opened it, noticing lebron’s handwriting immediately. he couldn’t wipe the silly grin off his face as he read the words, reaching down into his soul and warming his heart. he looked around for lebron, but couldn’t see him- he had obviously gone to the showers early or hung back to speak to reporters. grinning, he pulled a poster off the wall and borrowed a pen off a team mate, beginning to write his own response. he didn’t see lebron peering around the corner, his eyes twinkling and a grin the size of the sun on his face.

agger/finns and gerrard/torres for hoppipolla


do you know where your love is, do you think that you lost it?

it’s not that he arrived with the intention of taking what was xabi’s and making it his own. marking their captain in ways xabi could never see, never know about. it just happened. and he doesn’t regret it. he feels alive, for the first time in years. and if it means he bends over after the games, in the showers or up against the lockers or in the fucking kit room, then so be it. because he flies. he fucking flies and it’s fantastic. and nothing will ever take that away from him. ever.

there’s still a little bit of you laced with my doubt.

“are you cheating on me, daniel?”

“…what the fuck, finns?”

“i’m serious. are you or are you not cheating on me?”

“what kind of fucking question is that?”

“just fucking answer me, you piece of shit!”

“finns, jesus fucking christ, calm the fuck down before you wake everyone up!”

“just fucking answer me. just do it. open your lying mouth and lie to me, yet again.”

“when the fuck did i ever lie to you?”

“just fucking ANSWER me!”

“…no, i haven’t cheated.”

“you motherfucking…again with the lies. you can’t ever tell the truth, can you?”

“what the fuck is going on?!”

“this is what the fuck’s going on, daniel! fucking cctv of you getting sucked off by that fucking slut. what, is it because he’s pretty and new and young and fucking freckly? is that what you want? a fucking illiterate…fuck, daniel. why? why the fuck would you do that? y’know what? i don’t want to know. get out my house. now.”

“steve, i-”

“i don’t give a fuck if you’ve got ten seconds to live and need a blow job. get out my house. now.”

“finns, please.”

“y’know what? fuck you, daniel. take your bullshit and go fuck the pretty boy a few more times. shoot a load into him for me, won’t you?”

it's the wrong kind of place to be cheating on you.

fernando was laughing- he was actually fucking laughing. stevie couldn’t believe it. “are you fucking insane?! do you know what xabi and i are to each other?!” he hissed at the impossibly young man undressing slowly in front of him, and crawling onto the large bed that stevie knew better than his own. “come on, steven. live on the wild side,” fernando purred, crawling up the bed toward his newest conquest. stevie shook his head, feeling sick to his stomach. “xabi won’t ever know. it’ll just be our dirty little secret,” he whispered against stevie’s mouth, untucking his shirt and slipping a hand down the front. stevie gave a strangled gasp as fernando pulled him onto the bed and straddled him. “i’m going to enjoy this.”

there are places i remember all my life, though some may change, some for better, others never.

the season of 2007/2008 was one of the best stevie had lived through. mostly because they were fourth (again), were in the champions league semis (again?) and the pressure had finally shifted off his shoulders (soully) and onto someone else’s. fernando had a dirty mouth and a penchant for coming in dark places, but stevie was excited by the freshness and the sharpness of the young spaniard, so it continued to happen and the others continued not to notice it, and life was good. if they won the champions league, stevie might just say it was his favourite season yet.

goodbye my almost lover, goodbye my hopeless dream.

fernando was bored, but stevie really couldn’t give a fuck. “stevie, c’mon. i wanna fucking go already,” he drawled, showing his prowess for the english language. stevie shot him a look and glared down into his beer glass. fernando sighed, getting up and standing next to the scouser. “you need to get over him,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the corner of his lip and disappearing into the darkness. stevie shook his head, and drained the glass. “fernando, come back!”

and all i can taste is this moment.

stevie and xabi aren’t the only ones that can have istanbul. steve remembers the night well. although he didn’t know it then, hearing whispers of the new danish defender they were signing, rafa drunkenly singing about it, a scouser on each arm (steve couldn’t remember whether they were staff, friends or players). it wasn’t as if steve didn’t enjoy the evening, because fuck knows he did. spent most of the night trying to convince harry to come out his hotel room, and then they got so drunk they couldn’t remember what room they were staying in, so they ended up sleeping in pepe’s. it was a good night. it was. and if only steve had known that this danish defender rafa was singing about would change his life so completely, then maybe he wouldn’t have gotten so drunk and fucked harry. just maybe.

gerrard/shevchenko for pendules. (lolwot?)


i'm a war, of head versus heart, and it's always this way. my head is weak, my heart always speaks, before i know what it will say.

stevie’s at the bar, and sheva appears and sits down next to him; orders a whisky on the rocks and swirls the amber liquid around his glass for a good thirty seconds before stevie finally spoke up. “i’m surprised you’re still here,” he said. sheva shrugged and downed his whisky, waving for another. “our plane is having maintenance, so we’re grounded until further notice. ancelloti’s trying to organize another to get us out…” his english is thick and broken, but stevie nods and looks over at his team mates, drunk to absolute blindness and singing their songs loudly, surrounded by staff, friends and family. sheva drinks his second whisky in silence, and stevie’s finally arrive. “what’s england like?” sheva asks, and stevie bites his lip. he knows what the milano is thinking, and he opens his mouth to tell him no, he should stay on with his team, that england is harsh and unforgiving, unlike his soft and rounded italy, that his soul wasn’t worth losing to escape the pain of a defeat like that, but xabi appears and slings a heavy arm around his captain, pressing a kiss to his ear.

“schteeevie! why you is taking soooooo lohnngg?” he drawls, his spanish accent stronger than ever in his uncontrolled state. stevie grins, loving to see the normally straight-laced midfielder having a good time (it had taken him so long to smile). “i’m talking to andriy shevchenko,” he said, gesturing at the hunched figure next to him. xabi squinted, and his mouth dropped open comically. “stevie! that’s andriy shevchenkooo! why’s he still here?” he hissed loudly, giggling as he extended his last name. stevie explained, and xabi nodded. “sheva? tell your kaká he is a good player. i shall be calling him soon. we will chat, chat chat chat! now stevie, give of me alcohols pleases!” xabi said, licking his lips and staring at stevie’s.

stevie pretends not to notice and hands over the drinks and looks to sheva, who was fingering the turkish dollar in his grasp. “my kaká,” he said softly, and stevie squirms. “andriy? sheva? i think you should go back to the hotel, mate. think things over properly. don’t make any rash decisions. they don’t usually end up leaving you with many fans or friends,” stevie said, a hand on sheva’s shoulder. sheva nods and stands up, bidding him goodbye and disappearing into the crowd of people. stevie sighs and turns back to his group, a smile spreading as he sees peter performing the robot.

*

two seasons later and stevie is standing in the tunnel, 7 shevchenko blaring in white against chelsea blue ahead of him. sheva looks over his shoulder, his face a vision of regret and a man broken. stevie wonders how he sleeps at night.

vincent chase/eric murphy for cloverdash


always up for a laugh, she's a pain in the arse. every time that we meet, i skip a heartbeat.

vince tapped the tabletop, sighing impatiently as his eyes drifted to the clock. eric laughed, his back to vince, whispering to…to her. turtle and drama had headed out for another of drama’s screen-tests, and vince was supposed to be at lunch twenty minutes ago. yet eric kept talking, the minutes ticked by and vince’s usually docile temper was beginning to rear it’s head. finally, after the “you hang up” started, vince jumped to his feet and took the phone, pressing ‘end’ and tucking it into his pocket. “vince, what the fuck?” eric exclaimed, anger flashing through his eyes. vince kept moving, pressing him up against the counter, his lips fluttering along eric’s neck. “you fucking take forever on the phone to her. and we’ve missed lunch because of it. so, you get to make up for it,” he said, pulling away and dragging eric with him. “fuck, vince, we gotta go now-” eric started, blushing wildly. vince laughed and kept dragging. “relax, e. it’ll be fine. now c’mon, i’m hungry for some irish.”

(teenage) raúl/guti for toronja.


fascinating new thing- you delight me, and i know you're speaking of me. fascinating new thing- get beside me, i want you to love me.

raúl met guti during football class (yes, his school had a class for football. bernabau academy was famed for its football development, and raúl was there because he was going to be a fucking star) one hot afternoon in june. covered in sweat and feeling like he was going to die unless he got some water, a vision in white appeared on the edge of the pitch. a little unsure, a little awkward, raúl straightened up and squinted. “whose the newbie?” he asked íker as the goalkeeper stood idly beside him, his gloves refusing to stay on because of the sweat. “jose maria gutirrez…or something like that. people call him guti. or chema. think he prefers guti, though. came from andelusia or something.” íker mused.

“no, that was fucking villa. and he was born in austurias…” raúl said, wiping his face with his sopping shirt. sergio appeared, not a hair out of place, and only covered in a mild sheen of sweat. “where the fuck’ve you been?” íker demanded, eyeing the young defender as he grinned and winked. thumbing over his shoulder, the two turned to see fernando torres rubbing his hands slowly up and down the back of his thighs, sending one of the most pornographic looks to sergio that raúl had ever seen. raúl rolled his eyes and turned back to inspect the new boy, who was now being guided over by schuster. “boys, this is guti. he’s the new student the scouts picked up from segunda,” schuster said, patting guti’s shoulder. he sent them easy smiles, and something inside of raúl clicked. “hi guti. my name’s raúl, and this is íker, our goalie, and sergio, our right back. what position are you?” he asked, offering a hand and his friends.

guti smiled softly. “central midfielder. but i can move around if i need to,” he said, his voice like music to raúl’s ears. “music,” he whispered, as íker was banished to the goals and sergio to three laps for being late. guti almost glided past him, looking at him through thick eyelashes and a bashful smile. raúl pounced on him after the game, and hadn’t looked back since. raúl knows that if he ever wants to embarrass his lover, all he has to do is bring up that day and guti will turn as pink as a rose. nobody really knows why, except for the two of them. it’s an easy smile and a squeeze between the two of them, and he’s not regretted it.

cesc/robin for rhetoricwords


this may never start, we could fall apart and i'd be your memory.

nobody knows this, but cesc wasn’t actually the one to approach robin. robin cornered cesc after training one day, trapping him against his locker, palms flat against the surface, bodies flush together, and cesc had stuttered and stammered until robin had shut him up.

nervous hands and anxious smiles. i can feel you breathing, this is right where we belong.

la selección and oranje are merely obstacles that are to be respected and enjoyed for what they are. they know how hard it is to pull on the shirt of your country and to carry twenty million people on each shoulder. it’s a privilege and both of them know this. but when cesc is curled up in bed, in spain, rooming with íker or xabi or david villa or fernando (who has spent exactly as long on his phone, using msn to talk to sergio, who is only a room away and he said he’d swap rooms but-), feeling lonely and missing england (he never thought he’d say that), he wonders what it would be like to play for holland with robin. doesn’t know that robin, over in the netherlands and rooming with ruud or arjen or ryan, curled up in bed, often wonders what it’d be like to play for spain with cesc.

you can only be what you are, and you've got the heart of a star.

“cesc fàbregas. what have you done to my house?!” robin gasps as he comes inside, a beaming cesc standing in his living room. “i got bored waiting. so i…decorated.” robin wants to cry. “you’ve covered the room in spanish flags?! what the hell am i supposed to do with fifty million spanish flags?!” he exclaims, picking one up and inspecting it. cesc says something in french and kicks at the coffee table, walking over. “you can keep them. and whenever you go away, you can pull one out and pretend that you’re with me, instead of your scary dutch team mates.” cesc informs, plucking the flag out robin’s hands and replacing it with his own. “my team mates aren’t scary. you’ve met arjen before, and ryan. and dirk.” he said, moving some flags on the couch and making room for them.

“and you seem to think i’ll be going away from you an awful lot. there’s at least a hundred flags in here. you’re very productive when you’re bored,” he continued. cesc shrugged. “there’s actually a hundred and eleven. look at the table,” he said, standing up and tugging on robin’s hand. sighing, robing stood up and looked at the table. “i don’t see it?” he said. cesc rolled his eyes. “look closer, doofus!” cesc said, pushing him closer. robin sighed and looked lazily at the table, the bigger picture finally revealing itself to him. cesc had arranged the flags in the shape of a four and eleven, sitting neatly side by side, surrounded by dutch flags.

i'm only human and that's my saving grace.

“robin, please! for god’s sake, give it a rest!” cesc exclaimed down the phone, needing his temples. xabi looked up from his magazine, surprise on his face. he looked at joaquín and david, who had paused their game of halo to watch the youngest member of the squad (at the time) arguing. with angry expressions and all. the phone call ended with cesc snapping the phone shut and shoving it at xabi, yelling at him in english and storming out the room. “what the hell was that all about?” joaquín asked, standing up and walking over to xabi, who shrugged. “i’ve no idea. he started speaking french at one point. i wasn’t aware robin could speak it,” back in his room, cesc was pacing the floor, fernando’s eyes wide as he listened to cesc rant.

“and he fucking thinks he can just call whenever he wants and i’ll be there, but it doesn’t work like that! and when i’m having fun, it’s like I should be…i don’t know, shot or something, because i apparently can’t enjoy myself when i’m on national duty! he’s fucking stifling me and it’s horrible, fernando. what do i do?!” he wailed, dropping onto the end of the bed. fernando sighed and crawled closer, hugging cesc to him. “you’re only human, cesc. you need space. just tell robin that.” cesc sighed and rubbed his face, looking at fernando. “does that even work?” he sniffled. fernando shrugged. “i’m probably not the best person to ask. but you should learn from my mistakes.” cesc nodded, standing up.

xabi appeared, the ringing plastic in his hands being thrust at cesc with a glare. “answer your stupid phone! he keeps calling,” xabi snapped, crossing his arms and glaring at the younger man. cesc frowned. “cesc? hello? look, i’m sorry, cesc. i’m only human and i just…i miss you. more than you’ll ever know. and i’m sorry. please. talk to me.”

sernando for luckey_starzz


your voice was the soundtrack of my summer- do you know you're unlike any other? you'll always be my thunder.

“y’know something?” sergio announced, turning to face fernando after cesc had darted in and squirted them with a water gun, announcing that training was starting two hours later than expected. “what?” fernando asked, wiping his face with the quilt, the look on his face positively murderous. “whenever i think of 2006, your face is the only thing i can see. nothing else. not france, not real madrid, nothing. just you.” fernando grins. “what, was i that good in bed?”

i watched you disappear into the clouds; swept away into another town.

he’s not going to cry. he promised himself that, when the eventual day came, he wouldn’t cry. he’s 21, for god’s sakes, and he’s at the prime of his life. and everyone knew that fernando would, one day, need more than atléti could give him. sergio just didn’t expect him to go so…far. fernando had came over before he left for his holiday, and the minute sergio saw his face, he knew. his stomach twisted into a thousand knots and he felt himself break out into a cold sweat. he sat down heavily on his couch, and waited. waited for the words. fernando sat down next to him, and stared at his feet. he insisted on wearing nike sneakers because they were “comfortable”, and it just happened to help he was sponsored by them, sergio supposed. he really needed to teach that boy style. “i’m leaving, sergi,” he said, breaking the pregnant silence. sergio smiled waterily. “i know. holiday time, remember?” fernando growled, rubbing his face. “you know what i mean, sergio. don’t make this harder than it already is.”

sergio rolled his eyes. “like i can make this any fucking harder, fernando.” he said, staring at his plasma. fernando fell silent, trying to figure out what to say next. “i’m just so tired, sergio. i’m tired of losing. of being laughed at. of being depended on to save the team single-handedly.” sergio stood up, turning to look at fernando - to look him in the eyes, fury burning in his own. “liverpool won’t fucking give you what you think they will. you’ll fall into the same fucking position and you’ll end up wanting to leave in a few years, just like you did to atléti. the only difference being is that you’ll be stuck in fucking england and you’ll be old and nobody will want you anymore.” he snarled. fernando smiled (why is he smiling?!) and got up, placing his hands on sergio’s shoulders and kissing him. “you’ll still want me,” he whispered against them, patting his cheek and walking out.

there are moments when, when i know it, and the world revolves around us.

“i don’t understand why placing even more publicity on fernando and sergio is going to help the team. they already think they’re the best fucking thing since sliced bread in their own teams. do we really have to do this?” íker exclaimed at aragonés. “i’m not in control of these sort of decisions, íker. if you have a problem, take it up with the board.” aragonés replied, patting his shoulder and moving on to the journalists gathered outside. íker shot a glare at xabi, who threw his hands up and shrugged. “i can barely get a starting spot as it is, íker.” he said. íker crossed his arms over his chest. “doesn’t matter. i don’t want fernando and sergio heading this campaign. they already think the world revolves around them - do we really have to prove it?” he said, flopping down into the chair next to xabi, who shrugged again. almost as if he had heard them, sergio breezed into the foyer, looking as put-together as he usually did, if not more so.

dressed in pristine white nikes, jeans with huge d&g letting over the left leg and a white hilfiger polo, huge sunglasses hiding his face, íker moaned. “you’re a fucking walking billboard that now gets his own nike campaign. kill me now,” sergio smiled smugly at his captain and sat down on the edge of the chair. “you’re just jealous that fernando and i have to be the face of the team.” sergio said airily. íker’s jaw muscle clenched and xabi sighed. “well, I’m off. fernando wants a quick fuck before we do the photo shoot. bye!” he announced, getting up and strolling off, pausing to take a photo with an excited young fan. íker resisted the urge to throw the vase at the retreating figure. “breathe, íker. today’s youth isn’t what it was when we were growing up.” xabi said, opening a paper. íker looked at him, incredulous. “i’m only four years older than him! you make it sound like i’m a fucking geriatric or something!” he exclaimed. xabi rolled his eyes. “you are a geriatric, compared to him. so shut up and be quiet, otherwise we’ll have to put you down for your afternoon nap early.” he joked, his eyes twinkling. íker moaned, sinking back into his chair.

to bump into you accidentally, i charm you and tell you of the boys i hate, all the girls i hate, all the words i hate, all the clothes i hate- how i'll never be anything i hate. you smile, mention something that you like, oh how you'd have a happy life.

“now, i’m warning you. sergio is one of the biggest flirts i’ve seen in my life.” íker said, staring at fernando, who rolled his eyes. “íker, relax. i can handle myself. and why are you telling me? who says i’ll be around him that much?” raúl appeared, his arms crossed. “i do. he’s new, and you’re the old newbie, so you’ll be his partner for everything.” he said. fernando’s jaw dropped, and íker laughed. “obey your captain, niño!” he said, getting up when the doors opened and aragonés appeared with the new boy. fernando blinked. the kid was easily 6’, and was dressed in the team tracksuit and a pair of generic nikes given to them all at the beginning of the camp. “everyone? this is sergio ramos. some of you have played with him already, some of you have played against him, and some of you have had the fortune only to see him on the television. i want you to make him feel welcome and show him the ropes. sergio, you’ll be rooming with fernando for this camp. he’s the kid over there, with the freckles.” aragonés said, patting him on the back and walking out, shutting the door behind him.

xavi and joaquín were the first to pounce, hugging the new boy tightly and welcoming him at the speed of lighting. íker waded in as the others joined, grabbing sergio’s arm and pulling him to safety. “okay so, this is fernando. aragonés has already told you you’ll be rooming with him, but we’ve decided since you deserve to mingle with people your own age, that fernando will be doing everything with you! isn’t that fun?” íker said, resisting the urge to laugh at the disdain on fernando’s face directed at him. “you’re fernando torres, right?” sergio said, his voice deep and melodical. fernando blinked, and nodded. “oh man, i’ve played against you when i was at sevilla. you’re an amazing striker; so hard to mark. it was a great game!” he said, taking fernando’s hand and shaking it.

íker rolled his eyes and raúl smirked, fernando’s cheeks during bright red at the praise heaped upon him by this beautiful newcomer. “t-thanks.” he stammered, his palm clammy within sergio’s. íker sighed, draping an arm over sergio. “big flirt. told you,” he said, winking. sergio blushed and bit his lip, looking up at fernando through his lashes. fernando felt his knees go weak.

did you tell him? (no, no, no) give him kisses? (no, no, no) whisper honey, (no, no, no) you're delicious? (no, no, no)

“so, he’s cheated on me. what do i do now?” sergio yawned to gago, who was stretched out beside him on the football pitch. “you don’t sound too perturbed about it. why bother?” gago replied, inspecting his tan. sergio shrugged. “íker said i should stop fucking him. i don’t know whether that’d be more punishment for me than him, though. plus i think íker only said it because he usually ends up rooming next to us and ‘gets no sleep!’, apparently.” gago shuddered, and rubbed his face. “it’s not like you’ve never cheated on him. we’ve fucked plenty,” he said. sergio sighed. “exactly my predicament. i don’t like the thought of anyone else touching his ass, though. especially since i have to fuck it, and i really don’t want to be touching what someone else has spooged all over.” he said. gago propped himself up on his elbows. “what, you were el niño’s first?” he gasped, grinning. sergio shrugged. “so what if i was? i was like…19. he was 21 and legally the adult in all respects of the word. fucked like a champion, though. still does, all these years later.” gago rolled his eyes. “i thought you met in ’05. you were 18 then.” sergio shrugged. “point being, i fucked him good and he was the adult. proves nothing except that i get better with age.” gago snorted. “obviously not, if you can’t keep the kid from getting serviced by someone else.” sergio sighed, and bit his lip. “therein lies the problem, sergio. figure it out,” gago said, patting his cheek and getting up.

remembering everything about my world and when you came. wondering, the change you’d bring, means nothing else would be the same.

“you’re telling me you knew i was going to fuck you?” sergio is amused by fernando’s recent announcement, but fernando is steadfast. “yes. you had that look of a man with a mission when you saw me.” he says, nodding and lacing his fingers together. sergio rolls his eyes and turns onto his side, his hair splaying out like a model’s. fernando runs a finger down the delicious caramel stretch of his side, following through with kisses. sergio giggles and squirms, and fernando is amazed by how ticklish the boy is. he rubs his nose against sergio, kissing him once-twice-three times, before pressing his face into sergio’s neck and waiting to be held. sergio doesn’t disappoint. he never did.

i’m set free and i’m ready to go. you can’t stop me and you already know; the best days of our lives have yet to come.

fernando had to admit; he was deathly afraid of the first nt camp after his move to liverpool. he had made sure to call everyone before the details went public, and was sure that he’d saved himself a lot of face by doing so. sergio was the only problem. he hadn’t spoken to him since before he left, and he had been cold and detached on the phone. usually one to ask a thousand questions, he’d just asked how much he was getting paid, how much he signed for and when he was leaving. fernando had been surprised (olalla even more so; sergio was a good friend of hers and he’d not spoken to her for a long time), to say the least, but íker, guti and raúl had reassured him that sergio was fine, was taking the move in his stride and was still playing good football. so that had been that.

everyone had called after the first week, asking him how life was and how amazing it was that he had scored on his debut. there was, of course, one phone call that was conspicuously absent. íker had called and said sergio was over, playing xbox and ranting about the new player photos and how ugly they made him look (“my hair is better then that, damnit!”), but fernando didn’t say the obvious and íker didn’t mention it either. when he had arrived at the camp, his heart pounding a tattoo in his chest, the boys had greeted him with open arms and warm smiles. sergio was conspicuous only in his absence, and íker shot him a sympathetic look. fernando sighed inwardly and hugged his friends, hitting the elevator button. “he has a reason to be upset, fernando. don’t hate him for it.” íker whispered as he walked inside. fernando shook his head. “things will be better, now we’re not in each other’s space. you’ll see.” he said. íker smiled. “i hope so.”

summer nights hitting it so hard, we were blistering, can't keep from moving. the season is righting, we're too young to fight it, we stand united.

“you can’t go to manchester united.”

“why not?”

“because. you just can’t.”

“why, because there’s a chance i’ll end up playing against you?”

“no. you just can’t go there. if you insist on going to england, at least pick somewhere that’s good for you.”

“like?”

“i don’t know…liverpool?”

“why liverpool?”

“because everyone else is fucking there. you might as well follow the crowd.”

“does that mean you’re coming too?”

“do i look like i want to go play in a country that’s forgotten the meaning of sunshine?”

“oh, and i do?”

“you and your freckles will fit in just fine, nando.”

jt/lamps for mightypretty (you seriously have to finish that transfer fic! this is your bribery for it!!)


butterflies all havin' fun, you know what i mean, sleep in peace when day is done and this old world is a new world.

frank watches john as he slumbers. it’s a beautiful thing, and he’s amazed and how peaceful his captain is. his eyelashes flutter in his sleep, and frank sighs. it’s like he’s falling in love all over again, as mushy and stupid as it sounds. he doesn’t mind so much that they’re both fathers and don’t have a moment to breathe, let alone love each other. they work around it, find seconds in between the madness to appreciate what they know will always be there. and the times they travel away or for england, it’s like they hadn’t ever left.

you've created, you're something beautiful- a contradiction. i wanna play the game, i want the friction.

“fuck, lamps, right there!” john yelled, his fingers digging new holes into frank’s body, gripping so tight the skin was turning white. frank’s thrusts burned harder, pushed deeper, sent john to new places of pleasure he wasn’t sure existed. the crescendo was built up with the sounds of their frenzied lovemaking, and john wasn’t sure he’d heard anything more beautiful then the sound of frank’s muffled screams into his neck, biting down hard and drawing blood.

i've been dumb, i've been perfectly beautiful, lain on my back buying lovers with stealth.

he didn’t want to believe that frank was cheating on him. couldn’t bring himself to do it. it was too painful a thought, and anyone but xabi alonso. he didn’t know what to do, what to think. he was numb all over, shivering cold. joe hugged him as he sat against the bench, staring out over stamford bridge, still in his match kit. “what’s he done, joey? what’s he done?” john sobbed, breaking down against his team mate.

this air is blessed, you share with me. this night is wild, so calm and dull, these hearts they race from self control.

they couldn’t fuck anymore. it was wrong, not what they should’ve been doing. they had wives and careers and children to think about. three daughters and a son between them. it couldn’t happen, fuck it. it just couldn’t fucking happen anymore. the self-control would be the thing to kill him, in the end. he knew it.

is it getting better, or do you feel the same? will it make it easier on you now you got someone to blame.

“fuck lamps, why xabi eh? why the fuck did you go to that spanish twat? couldn’t ya have picked someone closer to him, huh? at least then i’d be able to understand the fucking thoughts going through your daft head!” john yelled, his words bouncing off the tiles and onto frank, sitting with his head bent on the chair. “it wasn’t my idea, john. xabi was upset, pissed off at stevie. he thought…he thought if we fucked, then stevie would learn his lesson. that xabi was wanted, just as much as he was. i didn’t want to but i was drunk and stupid and lonely. i was fuckin’ lonely, john. i didn’t know what else to do.”

and all these days i spend away, i’ll make up for this i swear. i need your love to hold me up when its all too much to bear.

“she’s gone jt…she’s fuckin’ gone,” frank sobbed, clutching at john’s shirt. tears glistened in his captain’s eyes as he held frank tight, kissing his head and rubbing his back. “cry it all out lampsy, cry it all out. i’m here for you. we all are,” he whispered.

the show must go on, the show must go on. inside my heart is breaking, my make-up may be flaking, but my smile still stays on.

his mum was gone, his dad had turned inward and couldn’t be left alone, jamie was camped out at his fuckin’ house and the team was looking at him like he was going to fall apart at any second. “are you sure you’re ready, lampsy?” john had approached him, cautious as you’d like. frank threw down his shin pads and stood up, fury in his eyes. “me mum wouldn’t want me to sit around the fuckin’ house moping like a tosser, especially when we’ve got fuckin’ liverpool up next. i knew you blokes could handle manchester without me, but I fuckin’ want this. i want this bad. I want to win the champions league.” he spat, glaring at his team mates. it was so quiet in the rooms, you could’ve heard a pin drop. “well,” john started, stepping forward to put a hand on frank’s arm. “let’s get out there and win us a fucking qualifier.”

so baby don't move at all, cause you're about to break my fall. stay where you are, staring at the stars, don't ever move at all.

“the stars are pretty cool, huh?” john said, waving a hand across the dark sky. frank nodded, lacing their fingers together. “thanks for staying around with me, through all of this.” he whispered, leaning over and kissing john deeply. “you’re welcome. seriously.” john whispered back, kissing him again.

what if i wanted to fight, beg for the rest of my life - what would you do?

“i fucking LOVE you! why are you doing this to me?” john gasped, grabbing at frank’s hands as he did up his belt. “it’s for the best, john. i’m sorry, i am.” john shook his head, frantic, getting up and trapping frank in the room. “you can’t leave.” he said, glaring. frank rolled his eyes and tried to elbow past, john sending him flying back into the room. “you can’t fucking leave! what part of i LOVE YOU is foreign to you, you daft cunt?! huh? don’t try and bear this on your fucking own!” john screamed, walking over and shoving frank onto the bed. “john,” frank whispered, to be met with a slap. “you can’t, you fucking selfish bastard. you can’t,” he said, tears brimming in his eyes.

and tonight, my pretty one, i'm gonna get my money's worth.

a tall figure cut his way down the street, toward a seemingly vacant public bathroom. he sent a few looks around, making sure the coast was clear, before entering and shutting the door behind him. inside were three or four men, relieving themselves, and one leaning against the wall, a cigarette hanging from his mouth. the man felt his breath freeze in his throat as he caught sight of the blue eyes that absolutely pulsated. he walked over, almost in a daze. “come home with me,” he whispered to the man, taking the cigarette from his mouth and taking a drag. whisky, nicotine and something fruity; it was heaven. blue eyes nodded at him, and walked toward the door, his eyes guarded. “my name’s frank.” he said. the other nodded and offered a hand. “m’ name’s john,” he replied. “john, huh? nice to meet you.” frank said, finally smiling. john felt his knees go weak. “t-thanks,” he replied, opening the door and venturing out into the cold weather, frank following behind.

sergio/fernando for neuroticismette.


then, jump for my love jump in and feel my touch. jump, if you want to taste my kisses in the night.

“i’m going to be paying for this for a long time, aren’t i?” fernando sighed, putting his bags down on the bed, sergio’s back to him. silence. fernando sighed again, walking around and getting on his knees in front of sergio. “whatever i did, i apologize. please don’t ignore me. life isn’t worth living if you aren’t talking to me.” he said, placing his hands on sergio’s knees. the soft brown eyes fluttered closed, and opened to look down at the freckled young man between his legs. it was all very poetic and beautiful, with the sunlight and the pitiful eyes and the pain beating between their hearts. if sergio were only a little meaner, maybe things would be different. but sergio’s too nice for his own good and he kisses fernando, falling slowly onto the older man, their bodies melding together.

i’m giving you everything all that joy can bring this i swear, and all that i want from you is a promise you will be there.

“i want to learn to smile with my eyes,” sergio said, sitting up from the grass and looking at his team mates. “you what?” fernando asked, blinking. “just what i said. smile with my eyes. how hard can it be?” he said, crossing his arms and focusing on the freckled face in front of him. fernando became quite uncomfortable as sergio’s face turned pink and his mouth twitched. “sergio, you’re going to hurt yourself. just smile. using your eyes for it isn’t necessary,” fernando hissed, moving forward to shake the defender, who batted him away and kept focusing. “sergio!” fernando yelped, and sergio let out a huge gust of air and fell backward. fernando crawled over and peered at his lover, curious. “why do you need to learn to smile with your eyes? your mouth is beautiful.”

~~~FIN.