day 7
Title: 5 player jerseys Íker Casillas stole, hid, and forgot about until the repercussions arrived
Characters: Random members of La Selección
Word Count:1,369
Rating: PG; sexual references
Disclaimer: If you're stupid enough to think these are real, then you deserve to be sued. I however, don't. Kthx.
Author’s Notes: Rawr, went over it again. I’m feeling awesome right now. So yeah, sorry it’s late. Lots of university stuff happened yesterday and I spent most of the night before pretty much not sleeping but its all over now. I’m becoming increasingly unhappy with what I produce for these. Apologies again.
1) Xabi Alonso’s.
He always considered himself ninja. He’d even gone as far as to getting himself a ninja mask and packing his black turtleneck. Sergio said he was insane, but he was not insane- no, he was Íker Casillas, who was above such trivial tags.
Xabi, however, didn’t believe he was ninja. He didn’t believe in the truth stealth that was Íker Casillas. So Íker decided to prove Xabi wrong by stealing his jersey, under the cloak of night. Of course, Íker was stealth and ninja, but not so much so that he could see in the dark. Finally emerging from the room, clutching at his shins, he definitely was contemplating as to how worth it this slight prank really was. “Oh well, I can always blame it on Cesc or Xavi.” He said, smiling and walking off into his room.
*
It’s early in the morning when Íker is awoken to banging, crashing and lots of irate yelling. Padding to his door, still bone tired, he opens it to reveal Xabi, shaking out Cesc’s suitcase all over the corridor. “What’re you doing?!” Cesc is yelping, as what appears to be his secret stash of sherbie bombs falls out of his socks. “You’ve stolen my jersey and you’ve broken the diet regulations!” Xabi’s face really has gone an interesting shade of red, and Íker almost feels sorry for Cesc. Almost.
2) Joaquín Sanchez’s.
Joaquín constantly annoyed him. He’d run around like a loon during training, always goofing off and making people laugh, and although he really was a horrible trainer, he kept the team morale high and Íker couldn’t fuck with that. Instead he decided to re-try his ninja-ness on the young man. On match day, before anyone else, Íker snuck in and stole his jersey, replacing it with a Fernando Torres one and shoving it into the bottom of his bag. Forgetting all about it, he soon joined the others in some rather inventive “I Spy” games.
Later on, they were all in the change rooms getting ready, when Joaquín held out the Torres jersey, confusion on his face. “Where’s my jersey?” he asked, sounding mildly displeased. Aragonés glared at the jersey, and then at its owner, whose eyes widened. “What? It wasn’t me! As if I’m stupid enough, if I had done it, to leave my jersey behind!” Needless to say, nobody believed him, and he spent the next 10 minutes having a stern talking to from Aragonés, and Joaquín sulked about his special jersey that was now MIA. Íker decided he rather liked this uncanny ability he had for getting others in trouble
3) Carles Puyol’s.
The man was being a shiteous defender and he needed to be whipped into shape with a good scare. So Íker took his jersey and hid it between the couch seats in David’s room. Carles indeed almost shat himself when he couldn’t find his jersey, and Íker sat back smugly while the curly-haired Catalan raced around, screaming at everyone to help him find his shirt before the game. He couldn’t quite remember where he hid it, as he had been quite infuriated at the time, and his penchant for rage blackouts still going strong, but he was sure it was around…somewhere.
4) Cesc Fàbregas’s.
It was a long time coming, really. The game had finished, Cesc was being smug and Íker was bitchy- it was going to happen, regardless. Cesc took off his shirt to go shower, and Íker walked past, fingers moving, picked up the jersey from Cesc’s bench and shoved it in the next possible bag, which happened to be Cañzaries’s. Smiling, he walked on into the showers and forgot all about his little locker room escapade.
That is, until, everyone returned back to their respective countries and he received a phone call from a hysterical Cesc at 5:30 in the morning, demanding if he had seen the jersey. Íker replied in the negative and hung up. He then hoped Cañzaries hadn’t done some sort of weird tantric ceremony with it. There was only so much weirdness he could take.
5) Fernando Torres’s.
“Torres, you are a fucking wanker.” Íker seethed, ripping down the calendar page from David Beckham’s most recent publication and crumpling it into a ball. The striker merely grinned in reply and sauntered off to the other side of the pitch, jumping on Sergio’s back once he had arrived and tugging at his hair. In reply, Sergio fell over backwards and knocked the wind out of Fernando.
*
Still furious later that night, he walked past Fernando’s bag and took his jersey, a whole list of cruel ideas running through his mind as per what to do with the jersey, still muddy and used from the game. Sitting in his hotel room at 11:30, staring at the jersey sitting on a coat hanger on his wardrobe, a glass of whisky in his hand, he wondered if he had the heart to do it. “Sacrificially burn this or something. I know I would.” Sergio said, looking at the floor from his place on the other bed. Íker shook his head, draining the glass. “I know you and him swap jerseys. I don’t want it.” He said, pushing it back. Sergio got up, pressing a kiss to his head. “It was out of line. All the Becks stuff is. Have it.” He said. Íker frowned, but embraced him.
After he had walked out, presumably to go deny Fernando for sex, Íker stared at it for a while longer. There was a knock on the door and Fernando walked in, frowning. “Oh. You’re the one that took my jersey. Figures.” He said, sitting down on the edge of the bed, looking rather young and embarrassed. “What do you want?” Íker yawned, sprawling out on his bed and watching the striker beneath hooded lids.
“I don’t know how you deal with it. Becks not being around and all.” Fernando began, picking at his expensive jeans. Íker frowned. “You just try not to think about it. We still talk over the phone occasionally, or email each other.” He said, resting his head on his pillow. Fernando pursed his lips. “I’ve tried to imagine life without Sergio. I mean, I know what its like, me being in England and him in Madrid. It’s hard not living so close to him. But like…to not even see him for national meetings? I don’t know how…I wouldn’t know how to deal with that.” He said. Íker kept quiet.
“It’s like…I can’t exactly compare what Becks and you had with what we’ve got. I mean, we’re younger and there’s no wives or kids or huge careers like that. We’re both young and relatively famous and it’s good like this. But if Sergio isn’t called up or I’m not it’s…its torture.” Fernando whispered, looking at Íker. Íker nodded. “You learn to deal with it. You’re here because you’re good enough to put on the red and gold for your country. Sergio’s here for the same reason.” He said. Fernando bit his lip.
“I’m sorry for giving you so much shit about Becks. I just…I see myself in you in a few years. And it scares me shitless.” Íker sat up, and put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t even think about it. Just focus on the here and now. You’re young enough and good enough, and so is Sergio. Even if you didn’t have the NT, you’d find a way. You always do.” He said softly. Fernando smiled, and hugged him. “Keep the jersey. You deserve to burn it, anyway. Sergio’s already got about 50 of mine. It’s quite creepy. I don’t know what to do with all of his. They’re sitting in a suitcase in my closet, smelling of sweat and grass. It’s starting to seep out into my normal clothes.” He said, standing up. Íker rolled his eyes. “I’ll make sure to include you in my sacrificial dance.” He drawled, and Fernando walked out, shutting the door quietly behind him.
The smile disappeared from Íker’s face, and he poured himself another glass of whisky, throwing it down with a grimace. Wondered if all he’d just said to Fernando was really true or not.
~~~FIN.
Characters: Random members of La Selección
Word Count:1,369
Rating: PG; sexual references
Disclaimer: If you're stupid enough to think these are real, then you deserve to be sued. I however, don't. Kthx.
Author’s Notes: Rawr, went over it again. I’m feeling awesome right now. So yeah, sorry it’s late. Lots of university stuff happened yesterday and I spent most of the night before pretty much not sleeping but its all over now. I’m becoming increasingly unhappy with what I produce for these. Apologies again.
1) Xabi Alonso’s.
He always considered himself ninja. He’d even gone as far as to getting himself a ninja mask and packing his black turtleneck. Sergio said he was insane, but he was not insane- no, he was Íker Casillas, who was above such trivial tags.
Xabi, however, didn’t believe he was ninja. He didn’t believe in the truth stealth that was Íker Casillas. So Íker decided to prove Xabi wrong by stealing his jersey, under the cloak of night. Of course, Íker was stealth and ninja, but not so much so that he could see in the dark. Finally emerging from the room, clutching at his shins, he definitely was contemplating as to how worth it this slight prank really was. “Oh well, I can always blame it on Cesc or Xavi.” He said, smiling and walking off into his room.
*
It’s early in the morning when Íker is awoken to banging, crashing and lots of irate yelling. Padding to his door, still bone tired, he opens it to reveal Xabi, shaking out Cesc’s suitcase all over the corridor. “What’re you doing?!” Cesc is yelping, as what appears to be his secret stash of sherbie bombs falls out of his socks. “You’ve stolen my jersey and you’ve broken the diet regulations!” Xabi’s face really has gone an interesting shade of red, and Íker almost feels sorry for Cesc. Almost.
2) Joaquín Sanchez’s.
Joaquín constantly annoyed him. He’d run around like a loon during training, always goofing off and making people laugh, and although he really was a horrible trainer, he kept the team morale high and Íker couldn’t fuck with that. Instead he decided to re-try his ninja-ness on the young man. On match day, before anyone else, Íker snuck in and stole his jersey, replacing it with a Fernando Torres one and shoving it into the bottom of his bag. Forgetting all about it, he soon joined the others in some rather inventive “I Spy” games.
Later on, they were all in the change rooms getting ready, when Joaquín held out the Torres jersey, confusion on his face. “Where’s my jersey?” he asked, sounding mildly displeased. Aragonés glared at the jersey, and then at its owner, whose eyes widened. “What? It wasn’t me! As if I’m stupid enough, if I had done it, to leave my jersey behind!” Needless to say, nobody believed him, and he spent the next 10 minutes having a stern talking to from Aragonés, and Joaquín sulked about his special jersey that was now MIA. Íker decided he rather liked this uncanny ability he had for getting others in trouble
3) Carles Puyol’s.
The man was being a shiteous defender and he needed to be whipped into shape with a good scare. So Íker took his jersey and hid it between the couch seats in David’s room. Carles indeed almost shat himself when he couldn’t find his jersey, and Íker sat back smugly while the curly-haired Catalan raced around, screaming at everyone to help him find his shirt before the game. He couldn’t quite remember where he hid it, as he had been quite infuriated at the time, and his penchant for rage blackouts still going strong, but he was sure it was around…somewhere.
4) Cesc Fàbregas’s.
It was a long time coming, really. The game had finished, Cesc was being smug and Íker was bitchy- it was going to happen, regardless. Cesc took off his shirt to go shower, and Íker walked past, fingers moving, picked up the jersey from Cesc’s bench and shoved it in the next possible bag, which happened to be Cañzaries’s. Smiling, he walked on into the showers and forgot all about his little locker room escapade.
That is, until, everyone returned back to their respective countries and he received a phone call from a hysterical Cesc at 5:30 in the morning, demanding if he had seen the jersey. Íker replied in the negative and hung up. He then hoped Cañzaries hadn’t done some sort of weird tantric ceremony with it. There was only so much weirdness he could take.
5) Fernando Torres’s.
“Torres, you are a fucking wanker.” Íker seethed, ripping down the calendar page from David Beckham’s most recent publication and crumpling it into a ball. The striker merely grinned in reply and sauntered off to the other side of the pitch, jumping on Sergio’s back once he had arrived and tugging at his hair. In reply, Sergio fell over backwards and knocked the wind out of Fernando.
*
Still furious later that night, he walked past Fernando’s bag and took his jersey, a whole list of cruel ideas running through his mind as per what to do with the jersey, still muddy and used from the game. Sitting in his hotel room at 11:30, staring at the jersey sitting on a coat hanger on his wardrobe, a glass of whisky in his hand, he wondered if he had the heart to do it. “Sacrificially burn this or something. I know I would.” Sergio said, looking at the floor from his place on the other bed. Íker shook his head, draining the glass. “I know you and him swap jerseys. I don’t want it.” He said, pushing it back. Sergio got up, pressing a kiss to his head. “It was out of line. All the Becks stuff is. Have it.” He said. Íker frowned, but embraced him.
After he had walked out, presumably to go deny Fernando for sex, Íker stared at it for a while longer. There was a knock on the door and Fernando walked in, frowning. “Oh. You’re the one that took my jersey. Figures.” He said, sitting down on the edge of the bed, looking rather young and embarrassed. “What do you want?” Íker yawned, sprawling out on his bed and watching the striker beneath hooded lids.
“I don’t know how you deal with it. Becks not being around and all.” Fernando began, picking at his expensive jeans. Íker frowned. “You just try not to think about it. We still talk over the phone occasionally, or email each other.” He said, resting his head on his pillow. Fernando pursed his lips. “I’ve tried to imagine life without Sergio. I mean, I know what its like, me being in England and him in Madrid. It’s hard not living so close to him. But like…to not even see him for national meetings? I don’t know how…I wouldn’t know how to deal with that.” He said. Íker kept quiet.
“It’s like…I can’t exactly compare what Becks and you had with what we’ve got. I mean, we’re younger and there’s no wives or kids or huge careers like that. We’re both young and relatively famous and it’s good like this. But if Sergio isn’t called up or I’m not it’s…its torture.” Fernando whispered, looking at Íker. Íker nodded. “You learn to deal with it. You’re here because you’re good enough to put on the red and gold for your country. Sergio’s here for the same reason.” He said. Fernando bit his lip.
“I’m sorry for giving you so much shit about Becks. I just…I see myself in you in a few years. And it scares me shitless.” Íker sat up, and put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t even think about it. Just focus on the here and now. You’re young enough and good enough, and so is Sergio. Even if you didn’t have the NT, you’d find a way. You always do.” He said softly. Fernando smiled, and hugged him. “Keep the jersey. You deserve to burn it, anyway. Sergio’s already got about 50 of mine. It’s quite creepy. I don’t know what to do with all of his. They’re sitting in a suitcase in my closet, smelling of sweat and grass. It’s starting to seep out into my normal clothes.” He said, standing up. Íker rolled his eyes. “I’ll make sure to include you in my sacrificial dance.” He drawled, and Fernando walked out, shutting the door quietly behind him.
The smile disappeared from Íker’s face, and he poured himself another glass of whisky, throwing it down with a grimace. Wondered if all he’d just said to Fernando was really true or not.
~~~FIN.