(no subject)
title:
pairing: iker casillas/sergio ramos
rated: pg
warning: au w/o context
In the past, Claudia would laugh lightly; shake her head and say, “of course I’m leaving. It’s a match day and you two are ridiculous.” Now she tightens her lip in a flat line and sweeps out of the door for a weekend away with the children bundled away for slumber parties or the rare weekend with family. Shutting the door to the fridge, opening a cabinet, walking through the wooden hallways is a new experience every time, and Iker hates the echoes. He hates the emptiness. The house feels too large even with Pepe and his magnificent presence filling up the air with laughter and the threat of a good time, but sometimes it’s too much.
The derby is displayed on a large flat screen. The colors are shining, every blade rendered with the perfect ratio of pixels and color, light, everything almost exactly like being there. It’s similar to memory in some ways, how nostalgia is an imperfect copy, almost but not quite. And even though he knows he has never been on that pitch, never stood between those posts, never played at that level, his knees tighten and his feet shift imperceptibly as If he were the one to dive across the goal. He’s done that so many times now, unconsciously moving in a certain way. He’ll turn in the shower and reach for shampoo that smells fresh, a bit fruity, and made for long, dark hair. He’ll go to the grocery store and turn left instead of right because someone asked for something sweet ten years ago, and he wanted to be that man, the one who remembered a passing thought and brought it home to his baby. He turns on his side at night, most nights, so many nights, and Iker will reach out for someone who is not there. It’s like his body fights to have what his mind is so desperate to forget.
Pepe is quiet tonight, as lost as Iker in thoughts of the past. He shifts to his side and sighs, the fifth time in the past half hour prompting Iker to nudge his foot. “You okay over there?”
“Thinking.” Pepe falls from the edge of the couch to Iker’s side. His hand is warm over Iker’s thigh, his breath hot, familiar. “You remember. Do you remember when we went up to ah. That meet in New York? The place with all those trees?”
They aren’t supposed to say such things to each other. There is an unspoken rule about the past. It existed, it happened, but it stays there because he can’t handle it. He’s a coward and he just cannot think about what was when he has so many responsibilities in the present.
He doesn’t remember the city or the date, but Iker does remember the trip. He remembers Sergio waking up at four to see him off, the tender kisses drugging them both under, Pepe banging on his door and the frantic run to the bus. He remembers the sting of the lake water in the early spring, the chill of the air and his breath billowing out in front of him. The gunshot crack breaking the silence, water slapping white against the oars, and the silence as his focus stretched out in front of him, one long line from beginning to the finish line. Then there was the shrill whistle, and a strong voice crying out for him, “Iker, Iker, you can do it, baby, come on baby,” a small slip, but it had been enough for Iker to grin and grit his teeth and surge to the end. He doesn’t remember the story for how Nando and Sergio managed their way out of school for the day, but there they were waiting along the water beyond the finish line. They had won, Iker had won, and Sergio was there. He remembers the feel of his body, the flat plains and the shallow curves, the feel of Sergio’s full lips against his cheek, his neck, everywhere but his mouth because they were in public. He remembers beer, the feel of Pepe’s hand along his thigh, the taste of Nando’s laughter, and Sergio.
He remembers Sergio Ramos because that is all his life ever had been. Sergio is who it will ever be.
“No,” he says softly. “I don’t remember. Sorry.”
:: 723
pairing: iker casillas/sergio ramos
rated: pg
warning: au w/o context
In the past, Claudia would laugh lightly; shake her head and say, “of course I’m leaving. It’s a match day and you two are ridiculous.” Now she tightens her lip in a flat line and sweeps out of the door for a weekend away with the children bundled away for slumber parties or the rare weekend with family. Shutting the door to the fridge, opening a cabinet, walking through the wooden hallways is a new experience every time, and Iker hates the echoes. He hates the emptiness. The house feels too large even with Pepe and his magnificent presence filling up the air with laughter and the threat of a good time, but sometimes it’s too much.
The derby is displayed on a large flat screen. The colors are shining, every blade rendered with the perfect ratio of pixels and color, light, everything almost exactly like being there. It’s similar to memory in some ways, how nostalgia is an imperfect copy, almost but not quite. And even though he knows he has never been on that pitch, never stood between those posts, never played at that level, his knees tighten and his feet shift imperceptibly as If he were the one to dive across the goal. He’s done that so many times now, unconsciously moving in a certain way. He’ll turn in the shower and reach for shampoo that smells fresh, a bit fruity, and made for long, dark hair. He’ll go to the grocery store and turn left instead of right because someone asked for something sweet ten years ago, and he wanted to be that man, the one who remembered a passing thought and brought it home to his baby. He turns on his side at night, most nights, so many nights, and Iker will reach out for someone who is not there. It’s like his body fights to have what his mind is so desperate to forget.
Pepe is quiet tonight, as lost as Iker in thoughts of the past. He shifts to his side and sighs, the fifth time in the past half hour prompting Iker to nudge his foot. “You okay over there?”
“Thinking.” Pepe falls from the edge of the couch to Iker’s side. His hand is warm over Iker’s thigh, his breath hot, familiar. “You remember. Do you remember when we went up to ah. That meet in New York? The place with all those trees?”
They aren’t supposed to say such things to each other. There is an unspoken rule about the past. It existed, it happened, but it stays there because he can’t handle it. He’s a coward and he just cannot think about what was when he has so many responsibilities in the present.
He doesn’t remember the city or the date, but Iker does remember the trip. He remembers Sergio waking up at four to see him off, the tender kisses drugging them both under, Pepe banging on his door and the frantic run to the bus. He remembers the sting of the lake water in the early spring, the chill of the air and his breath billowing out in front of him. The gunshot crack breaking the silence, water slapping white against the oars, and the silence as his focus stretched out in front of him, one long line from beginning to the finish line. Then there was the shrill whistle, and a strong voice crying out for him, “Iker, Iker, you can do it, baby, come on baby,” a small slip, but it had been enough for Iker to grin and grit his teeth and surge to the end. He doesn’t remember the story for how Nando and Sergio managed their way out of school for the day, but there they were waiting along the water beyond the finish line. They had won, Iker had won, and Sergio was there. He remembers the feel of his body, the flat plains and the shallow curves, the feel of Sergio’s full lips against his cheek, his neck, everywhere but his mouth because they were in public. He remembers beer, the feel of Pepe’s hand along his thigh, the taste of Nando’s laughter, and Sergio.
He remembers Sergio Ramos because that is all his life ever had been. Sergio is who it will ever be.
“No,” he says softly. “I don’t remember. Sorry.”
:: 723