[Fic] Happy New Year. Here's a second set, a remainder of 2006
Here's a second set of random drabbles and prompts written (mostly) for Serena. The first set was from a prompt given to me by rondaview that I could never properly wrap my brain around. I managed three much too short responses, but perhaps sometime I will finish the rest. I'd been meaning to post this for ages, but as always, too many errors, too short an attention span, not enough pokes at Serena to beta.
Some of these aren't as polished as the rest. Porn is awkward, but so are those involved. One of them is a crumpled kind of mess, but I've found of two particular pieces and in love with one line. Maybe you can pick it out?
• • •
PRANKS IKER HAS PULLED ON BECKHAM
I. The refrigerator in the training room. It was a type of artificial battle-ground, of rapidity and willpower. He could be non-nonchalant about it, Iker thought; completely normal. In -- out. David had spent minute after meticulous minute wiping down the first shelf of the fridge, arranging rows of soda and eventually taking out a can and dumping it in the sink to make the number even.
Iker felt hints of child-like euphoria while tipping them over like domino, from opening one up just to pour the syrupy liquid over his hand so he could make sticky the glistening aluminum. Once, after David has spent over an hour arranging the entire fridge with Pepsi, Iker had felt compelled to put a can in the freezer leaving it to explode and leak its slushed content down into the lower compartments, coating can after can.
II. The grand satisfaction. It came with the slow opening of lips, with the startled sound that escaped David's pliant body. Iker reveled in it, felt a yelp of triumph well up, forcing him to smirk with predatorial elation.
"Hable con Brooklyn. Sabias que tu hijo es aficionado de Liverpool?"
The words were spoken in his happiest tone, a light-hearted timbre of speech reserved for girlfriends or small children. David looked like he was going to be ill.
III. The man was drunk. Partially drunk -- or so he claimed directly afterward.
"Have you not noticed? The towhead's obsessed with thin. Thin pants, thin belts, thin ties -- for god's sake, his wife is a living goddess of thinspiration. DAVID BECKHAM HATES FAT PEOPLE."
Well, he thought it was a hilarious bit of fluff at the time. Especially with Ronaldo sitting a flaming gay away. But somehow the yellow press has gotten ahold of his joke and all of the Big & Beautiful organization had rallied up for some exciting effigy burning.
Perhaps, Iker thought, some tamarind candy would be available for the public execution of David Beckham, the Hitler of the Obese.
• • •
TIMES A PLAYER'S MIND WANDERED WHILE PLAYING AGAINST A TEAM LIKE SAN MARINO
He was fourteen then. Too many centimeters below his preferred height, gangly and with an unflattering haircut. His brother Mikel was a star out on their makeshift pitch of crumpled concrete and badly marked out goal boxes. Xabi was el niño back then, el hermanito with quick feet that were still a bit clumsy.
Xabi was weaker then; his crosses, his passes, his attempts at flair failing in execution. But there was skill and the desire to prove to Mikel that he was right in choosing him for his side. That the captain of their band of futbolistas callejeros saw past kin and saw real skill.
He would run a hand through his badly fluffed hair and he would scrape up elbows, open up old scars through wanting so badly to win.
And now, sitting on the bench of a game against a team ranked below the 100th level in the world, his fourteen year-old self glared through the past, his pride moving forth determined to beat this team as if they were champions of the world.
Because it wouldn't be this game that would prove his brother wrong.
• • •
(ONCE) YOURS FOR THE TAKING
• Death is the road to Awe
Death was a matter of decomposition, lividity and rigor mortis. A decapitation with no ability for revival. Death equated to missing set pieces, play-makers out with months of injuries; stiff muscles and fractured egos. Death could mean the slow crush of a failed season, erroneous transfers. A necrosis of the club that bore him, that placed him at the top of podiums.
You could breath in the viridescent aura in the air; the sickly sweetness of the jaundiced crowds. No more ti adoro, no longer ti amo --- he's gone; face a worn out mess and yet that Judas smile. Yet that short wave and expectant nod.
"Come say goodbye to me. Come near me. Come tell me you'll still love me. I'll phone you. Come see me."
•
There had been no replacements. Strikers with natural grace, a guarantee of skill and an adoration for the feel of a ball curling into the top of a net --- they were not brought up in every football school, they were not present in every club. Players that carried themselves with such ease were not all brought up in well-off households like Kaká's.
•
There were no proxies, no grace period for mourning, no time to wash away vitriolic emotions; he was known for his ready smiles, but more than ever there was reason for being caustic. The weight of red and black had begun its gradual increase the moment he was lifted up into a gilded cage, managers and fans frightened of second division, of being without the Champions League, of being tossed aside in favor of a higher paycheck and a different set of kits.
Kaká felt the weight of the diavoli happiness. The world could disappear when he closed his eyes, but it would reappear with more fervor and disappointments than before. The hands on his face could fall away, his fingers could spread over his lashes and between them there would still be expectations and promises made in his name. His figure tied down to the fate of the club, to its successes and failures. A responsibility tearingly acquired --- thrust toward him.
"He is the future of this club. Our goal scorer. There is no need for anyone else.”
• • •
AN INTERPRETATION OF WHAT THE ENDING COULD HAVE BEEN LIKE.
A variation of Serena's more attractive ending.
Dan grabbed onto Luis' hips, shuffling to sit on the edge of the couch so his grasp was made up of sweating palms steady and a pressure that said 'stay'. Luis stood still, arms slack at his sides, focusing on the movement of Dan's throat, the panting anxiety of his lips opening just slightly. Dan let a few fingers slip beneath the band of Luis' pants, a tentative movement to trace the line of muscle and bone.
He stared down at him, smile cutting and lax. He was too experienced for small sighs, for the suddenness of goosebumps and appreciative murmurs. Instead, Luis smiled for Dan to continue. Perhaps a trail of fingers down to his belt, an enthusiastic pulling of his zipper or a slide of his hand to pull him closer --- But he would wait.
Dan held in place, kept flickeringly silent until he felt his legs cramping a bit and leaned forward enough that he could brush his lips against the front of Luis' pants, let his head rest against the leather of a belt, eyes closed, shoulders slumped. Dan couldn't let himself be jarred by the metallic taste of a buckle, the textured cotton of denim.
Luis patted him on the head, fingers weaving into the coarseness of Dan's hair, gripping; pulling back harsh enough so that the pain was just past an acceptable threshold. Just enough so that Dan's pulse beat away in his chest and throat and Luis could look him in the eyes and bend down just enough for a sardonic tone of voice.
"No seas maricón, Daniel." Daniel, not Dan. Daniel, in a near baritone; a seriousness of tone rarely used by Luis when dealing with him.
And Dan knew this one, knew when Luis threw him back against the couch, one hand against his thigh, another painfully wrapped along the side of his face, he could taste the meaning and reacted.
"Don't chicken out. Don't be a faggot."
The pressure of Luis' body against his was a crush, stealing his breath long enough that he didn't notice the loosening of his short strings for a second. Kissing Luis felt like being dominated, like any moment the man was going to slice him open or punch him across the cheek and walk out of the door. It was being left wanting and uncertain, it made Dan feel like he didn't know what to do with his hands or tongue. His heart was pacing and Luis wasn't soft or gentle.
Luis bit Dan's bottom lip, right hand working at pulling down his shorts. A blush spread across Daniel's face and he was a virgin again, easily aroused and praying that he wouldn't embarrass himself.
Luis slid off of him, motioning with his arms that he should move. "Lay down." And because Dan couldn't think enough to question it, he swung his legs up, positioning himself so that he was laying down, head propped up by a pillow against the arm of the couch. Luis sat down beside him, leaning down so close that their breath mingled as Luis guided his hand back down to Dan's thigh, back to tease and wait for Dan's breathing to hitch, back for the flushed skin and nerves to race across his stomach.
Luis wrapped his fingers around his cock and Dan stopped processing any coherent thoughts aside from the fact that he was the one clutching Luis' shoulders and arms, that he was the one drawing back from rough kissed and the calloused pads of Luis' fingers, the wine and salt taste of skin. It was Dan's legs that parted and bent to accommodate Luis, to accommodate the smaller man and Dan wasn't the only one leaving teeth marks and bruises. Luis changed the pressure of his strokes, the pace --- manipulated and teased with a flicker of his tongue against Daniel's throat until Dan came, short gasps muffled against Luis' collar.
He was quiet when Luis brought his hand up, still wet with come and slid a finger into his mouth, licking it clean. Dan was quiet when Luis graced him with a small kiss and a whisper.
"Sentiste eso, Daniel?"
Did you feel that? Did it ache? Luis wiped his hand on Daniel's shirt and ruffled his hair; still smiling as he made his way past the door.
• • •
DANCE
Your last caress --- given among the glittering throng; a recycled token of your affection, a cold pass of fingers and glances. Matching Armani and club pins prominent on your lapels.
His wife is here --- small and delicate --- carnelian shimmer of bow lips and modest gestures. She's as you remember from wedding pictures. She resembles the pretty doll-like figure folded away from a photograph hidden in your wallet.
"It wasn't jealousy," you thought. She was was lovely, she was fresh-faced, she loved him --- they suited each other --- they 'fit'. You merely wanted him alone; married blushing groom with a newly placed circlet of gold on his hand.
Double ring ceremony. His, hers ---
You wife was ill, missing out on the last opportunity to be a shield against how happy he pretended. Against any charm he conjured up to trip you up. She'd abandoned you to drag him into a tiny stall.
"Talk to me."
• • •
TIME STOPS (CURE THE WAKING DAY)
A joyous game, a coated malaise of adulation and open-ended expectation. The boy was a collection of soft affection and easy smiles; reared to excel to the best of his abilities. The golden colors suited the wunderkind persona and so he followed the feel of color and the thread of championship to another country, reaching with it an aptitude for improvement. He was growing up idle, de-pressurized and beaming. A climbing club, a loss-less season, a run for silver derailed by Barcelona.
But still, you felt trapped by your own situation. How to compare, how to get past the savior of the Spanish game? ¿Como decir que te mueres de envidia, que tus ojos se han llenado de visiones de el niño dorado? When will you break away? There won't be any moments of victory that will satiate your hunger; is it enough to keep your club afloat, to be el Niño capitán and carry the hopes of a city; a crowd that tears and breaks you apart from wanting to leave?
•
Twenty-two this year and he felt weathered by age. His face in a locker-room mirror held a kind of haunted hope; a moment of apathy dressed up in a cocky smile and a hand-clapping pep-talk about giving their all and triumphing over cock-sucking Barcelona.
"We'll win this time. Just keep to the bands. Break their rhythm and there's no getting past us".
There's no getting past this.
There's no rushing past.
There's no denying it.
Turns have become fewer and fewer, flashes of brilliance are starting to become common place and losing their shine. And this baby-face Fernando Torres is Atletico Madrid's captain, her key striker. Before the pitch, before that ever-present rush of screams and chants --- a shake out, his fingers half-forming the sign of the cross --- forehead, chest, heart, right, a kiss. Pray for a good match, a fair result. «Porfavor que no falle, que no falle. Que no caiga. Que no vacile, que no quebré.»
And the boy was three years younger, inches shorter, with a longer longevity as a player, with more possibilities, with more of everything. Confidence radiated off of him like a calm; a reassurance that he would be able to deliver, that he needed none of the accolades of Barça, he needed no pre-destined glory. The boldness crushed Fernando, pressed against his throat until all he could do was keep from pressing his hands over Cesc Fabregas' face, to keep the light-hearted gleam away from him. He wanted to rip away the assured lines of his eyes, the carefree ease of his smile and somehow transfer it onto his freckled face.
«Cuando te acuestes, persígnate, besa la cruz y encomiéndate a Dios»
Sergio was the only person who had ever been able to properly articulate his feeling of isolation. The cold defeat of accomplishment. Sergio had barely been out of his teens when Real Madrid swept him up, put 27 million euros in his bank account and thus labeling him one of their hand-picked Galacticos. Despite his foppishness; designer bags and women --- excessive glitz and fickle indulgences --- Sergio found a balance through searching out happiness outside of the game, outside of the lights. Fernando has felt a sheepish child during a night of drinking and conversation.
«Persígnate y encomiéndate a Dios.»
«Como me voy a encomendar a Dios cuando todos mis pensamientos son en superarlo? A subir a lo mas alto mientras que el Artillero de Arsenal se queda atrás? Como voy a superar mis propias dudas sin lastimar mi orgullo?»
And yet the words reverberated throughout his memories and he couldn't think of another way to deal with pangs of jealousy, with the rising level of rancor and regret. Y Dios decidirá tu suerte.
As the roaring of the crowd grew louder, as the doors of the stadium flung open onto the pitch, Fernando Torres bowed his head, turned to his team and he rushed them forward. Always their venerable captain.
• • •
REBELLION
He had a temper and a pace, a rapidity of movement that swept through the dry cuts of grass and past white lines that lay imperfect amidst green. The white of his boots stroked the ball, beating it, tapping it, coercing it in even beats and long strides to shift in whatever way he wanted it to. His was a game of choler agitated by anyone who tried to out dance him on the pitch, who stumbled into his solo, trying to trip him up while he paused. There were accompanists, but they were peripheral; they were bystanders and they were obstacles, failing at the side-lines and running out of breath in mid-field as he stood for one measure too long.
His was a game of technical agility, not new gentry. Halted entanglements, corners ripped away despite protests sent him into near apoplectic rage; off-sides, fouls, hand balls --- they were all shit. It was all in the way and the barriers blinded him. Five missteps for every fanciful corner he turned and every opening he managed to steal away. A match was based on units, 22 men, their conductors and techs. And van Persie was someone who was split apart by the halted notes of it.
The first yellow had been justified, the second had been a deviation from the score, a sour note that sent him careening out of the game and expulsed into the locker room, kicking and aching. The aftershock of the loss had him pursing his lips, head uplifted, but turned away in apology. I'm sorry. I was angry. We lost. I'm sorry. It was a warble of words and some of them were indifferent, some of them honest, most of them missing.
Cesc' face was wounded, sweaty and pitch-stained it took everything of him to put his shaking hand to Robin's neck and pull him into an awkward hug. The silence of the room echoed out Cesc's intended words: "Stop apologizing and own up to it.". But he couldn't. He knew it, he could taste the disappointment and could feel his captain's frustration.
Showers were taken with only the sound of water and the scent of soap. Questions would come later, disciplinary action and demands. Later he would break it off, he would throw Cesc out of his door, would sit alone and watch a replay of the match. He would sulk and categorize the errors, he would pause and rewind. He would catalog his movements and in his own way own up by admitting to the dark that he was in the wrong.
• • •
Some of these aren't as polished as the rest. Porn is awkward, but so are those involved. One of them is a crumpled kind of mess, but I've found of two particular pieces and in love with one line. Maybe you can pick it out?
• • •
PRANKS IKER HAS PULLED ON BECKHAM
I. The refrigerator in the training room. It was a type of artificial battle-ground, of rapidity and willpower. He could be non-nonchalant about it, Iker thought; completely normal. In -- out. David had spent minute after meticulous minute wiping down the first shelf of the fridge, arranging rows of soda and eventually taking out a can and dumping it in the sink to make the number even.
Iker felt hints of child-like euphoria while tipping them over like domino, from opening one up just to pour the syrupy liquid over his hand so he could make sticky the glistening aluminum. Once, after David has spent over an hour arranging the entire fridge with Pepsi, Iker had felt compelled to put a can in the freezer leaving it to explode and leak its slushed content down into the lower compartments, coating can after can.
II. The grand satisfaction. It came with the slow opening of lips, with the startled sound that escaped David's pliant body. Iker reveled in it, felt a yelp of triumph well up, forcing him to smirk with predatorial elation.
"Hable con Brooklyn. Sabias que tu hijo es aficionado de Liverpool?"
The words were spoken in his happiest tone, a light-hearted timbre of speech reserved for girlfriends or small children. David looked like he was going to be ill.
III. The man was drunk. Partially drunk -- or so he claimed directly afterward.
"Have you not noticed? The towhead's obsessed with thin. Thin pants, thin belts, thin ties -- for god's sake, his wife is a living goddess of thinspiration. DAVID BECKHAM HATES FAT PEOPLE."
Well, he thought it was a hilarious bit of fluff at the time. Especially with Ronaldo sitting a flaming gay away. But somehow the yellow press has gotten ahold of his joke and all of the Big & Beautiful organization had rallied up for some exciting effigy burning.
Perhaps, Iker thought, some tamarind candy would be available for the public execution of David Beckham, the Hitler of the Obese.
• • •
TIMES A PLAYER'S MIND WANDERED WHILE PLAYING AGAINST A TEAM LIKE SAN MARINO
He was fourteen then. Too many centimeters below his preferred height, gangly and with an unflattering haircut. His brother Mikel was a star out on their makeshift pitch of crumpled concrete and badly marked out goal boxes. Xabi was el niño back then, el hermanito with quick feet that were still a bit clumsy.
Xabi was weaker then; his crosses, his passes, his attempts at flair failing in execution. But there was skill and the desire to prove to Mikel that he was right in choosing him for his side. That the captain of their band of futbolistas callejeros saw past kin and saw real skill.
He would run a hand through his badly fluffed hair and he would scrape up elbows, open up old scars through wanting so badly to win.
And now, sitting on the bench of a game against a team ranked below the 100th level in the world, his fourteen year-old self glared through the past, his pride moving forth determined to beat this team as if they were champions of the world.
Because it wouldn't be this game that would prove his brother wrong.
• • •
(ONCE) YOURS FOR THE TAKING
• Death is the road to Awe
Death was a matter of decomposition, lividity and rigor mortis. A decapitation with no ability for revival. Death equated to missing set pieces, play-makers out with months of injuries; stiff muscles and fractured egos. Death could mean the slow crush of a failed season, erroneous transfers. A necrosis of the club that bore him, that placed him at the top of podiums.
You could breath in the viridescent aura in the air; the sickly sweetness of the jaundiced crowds. No more ti adoro, no longer ti amo --- he's gone; face a worn out mess and yet that Judas smile. Yet that short wave and expectant nod.
"Come say goodbye to me. Come near me. Come tell me you'll still love me. I'll phone you. Come see me."
•
There had been no replacements. Strikers with natural grace, a guarantee of skill and an adoration for the feel of a ball curling into the top of a net --- they were not brought up in every football school, they were not present in every club. Players that carried themselves with such ease were not all brought up in well-off households like Kaká's.
•
There were no proxies, no grace period for mourning, no time to wash away vitriolic emotions; he was known for his ready smiles, but more than ever there was reason for being caustic. The weight of red and black had begun its gradual increase the moment he was lifted up into a gilded cage, managers and fans frightened of second division, of being without the Champions League, of being tossed aside in favor of a higher paycheck and a different set of kits.
Kaká felt the weight of the diavoli happiness. The world could disappear when he closed his eyes, but it would reappear with more fervor and disappointments than before. The hands on his face could fall away, his fingers could spread over his lashes and between them there would still be expectations and promises made in his name. His figure tied down to the fate of the club, to its successes and failures. A responsibility tearingly acquired --- thrust toward him.
"He is the future of this club. Our goal scorer. There is no need for anyone else.”
• • •
AN INTERPRETATION OF WHAT THE ENDING COULD HAVE BEEN LIKE.
A variation of Serena's more attractive ending.
Dan grabbed onto Luis' hips, shuffling to sit on the edge of the couch so his grasp was made up of sweating palms steady and a pressure that said 'stay'. Luis stood still, arms slack at his sides, focusing on the movement of Dan's throat, the panting anxiety of his lips opening just slightly. Dan let a few fingers slip beneath the band of Luis' pants, a tentative movement to trace the line of muscle and bone.
He stared down at him, smile cutting and lax. He was too experienced for small sighs, for the suddenness of goosebumps and appreciative murmurs. Instead, Luis smiled for Dan to continue. Perhaps a trail of fingers down to his belt, an enthusiastic pulling of his zipper or a slide of his hand to pull him closer --- But he would wait.
Dan held in place, kept flickeringly silent until he felt his legs cramping a bit and leaned forward enough that he could brush his lips against the front of Luis' pants, let his head rest against the leather of a belt, eyes closed, shoulders slumped. Dan couldn't let himself be jarred by the metallic taste of a buckle, the textured cotton of denim.
Luis patted him on the head, fingers weaving into the coarseness of Dan's hair, gripping; pulling back harsh enough so that the pain was just past an acceptable threshold. Just enough so that Dan's pulse beat away in his chest and throat and Luis could look him in the eyes and bend down just enough for a sardonic tone of voice.
"No seas maricón, Daniel." Daniel, not Dan. Daniel, in a near baritone; a seriousness of tone rarely used by Luis when dealing with him.
And Dan knew this one, knew when Luis threw him back against the couch, one hand against his thigh, another painfully wrapped along the side of his face, he could taste the meaning and reacted.
"Don't chicken out. Don't be a faggot."
The pressure of Luis' body against his was a crush, stealing his breath long enough that he didn't notice the loosening of his short strings for a second. Kissing Luis felt like being dominated, like any moment the man was going to slice him open or punch him across the cheek and walk out of the door. It was being left wanting and uncertain, it made Dan feel like he didn't know what to do with his hands or tongue. His heart was pacing and Luis wasn't soft or gentle.
Luis bit Dan's bottom lip, right hand working at pulling down his shorts. A blush spread across Daniel's face and he was a virgin again, easily aroused and praying that he wouldn't embarrass himself.
Luis slid off of him, motioning with his arms that he should move. "Lay down." And because Dan couldn't think enough to question it, he swung his legs up, positioning himself so that he was laying down, head propped up by a pillow against the arm of the couch. Luis sat down beside him, leaning down so close that their breath mingled as Luis guided his hand back down to Dan's thigh, back to tease and wait for Dan's breathing to hitch, back for the flushed skin and nerves to race across his stomach.
Luis wrapped his fingers around his cock and Dan stopped processing any coherent thoughts aside from the fact that he was the one clutching Luis' shoulders and arms, that he was the one drawing back from rough kissed and the calloused pads of Luis' fingers, the wine and salt taste of skin. It was Dan's legs that parted and bent to accommodate Luis, to accommodate the smaller man and Dan wasn't the only one leaving teeth marks and bruises. Luis changed the pressure of his strokes, the pace --- manipulated and teased with a flicker of his tongue against Daniel's throat until Dan came, short gasps muffled against Luis' collar.
He was quiet when Luis brought his hand up, still wet with come and slid a finger into his mouth, licking it clean. Dan was quiet when Luis graced him with a small kiss and a whisper.
"Sentiste eso, Daniel?"
Did you feel that? Did it ache? Luis wiped his hand on Daniel's shirt and ruffled his hair; still smiling as he made his way past the door.
• • •
DANCE
Your last caress --- given among the glittering throng; a recycled token of your affection, a cold pass of fingers and glances. Matching Armani and club pins prominent on your lapels.
His wife is here --- small and delicate --- carnelian shimmer of bow lips and modest gestures. She's as you remember from wedding pictures. She resembles the pretty doll-like figure folded away from a photograph hidden in your wallet.
"It wasn't jealousy," you thought. She was was lovely, she was fresh-faced, she loved him --- they suited each other --- they 'fit'. You merely wanted him alone; married blushing groom with a newly placed circlet of gold on his hand.
Double ring ceremony. His, hers ---
You wife was ill, missing out on the last opportunity to be a shield against how happy he pretended. Against any charm he conjured up to trip you up. She'd abandoned you to drag him into a tiny stall.
"Talk to me."
• • •
TIME STOPS (CURE THE WAKING DAY)
A joyous game, a coated malaise of adulation and open-ended expectation. The boy was a collection of soft affection and easy smiles; reared to excel to the best of his abilities. The golden colors suited the wunderkind persona and so he followed the feel of color and the thread of championship to another country, reaching with it an aptitude for improvement. He was growing up idle, de-pressurized and beaming. A climbing club, a loss-less season, a run for silver derailed by Barcelona.
But still, you felt trapped by your own situation. How to compare, how to get past the savior of the Spanish game? ¿Como decir que te mueres de envidia, que tus ojos se han llenado de visiones de el niño dorado? When will you break away? There won't be any moments of victory that will satiate your hunger; is it enough to keep your club afloat, to be el Niño capitán and carry the hopes of a city; a crowd that tears and breaks you apart from wanting to leave?
•
Twenty-two this year and he felt weathered by age. His face in a locker-room mirror held a kind of haunted hope; a moment of apathy dressed up in a cocky smile and a hand-clapping pep-talk about giving their all and triumphing over cock-sucking Barcelona.
"We'll win this time. Just keep to the bands. Break their rhythm and there's no getting past us".
There's no getting past this.
There's no rushing past.
There's no denying it.
Turns have become fewer and fewer, flashes of brilliance are starting to become common place and losing their shine. And this baby-face Fernando Torres is Atletico Madrid's captain, her key striker. Before the pitch, before that ever-present rush of screams and chants --- a shake out, his fingers half-forming the sign of the cross --- forehead, chest, heart, right, a kiss. Pray for a good match, a fair result. «Porfavor que no falle, que no falle. Que no caiga. Que no vacile, que no quebré.»
And the boy was three years younger, inches shorter, with a longer longevity as a player, with more possibilities, with more of everything. Confidence radiated off of him like a calm; a reassurance that he would be able to deliver, that he needed none of the accolades of Barça, he needed no pre-destined glory. The boldness crushed Fernando, pressed against his throat until all he could do was keep from pressing his hands over Cesc Fabregas' face, to keep the light-hearted gleam away from him. He wanted to rip away the assured lines of his eyes, the carefree ease of his smile and somehow transfer it onto his freckled face.
«Cuando te acuestes, persígnate, besa la cruz y encomiéndate a Dios»
Sergio was the only person who had ever been able to properly articulate his feeling of isolation. The cold defeat of accomplishment. Sergio had barely been out of his teens when Real Madrid swept him up, put 27 million euros in his bank account and thus labeling him one of their hand-picked Galacticos. Despite his foppishness; designer bags and women --- excessive glitz and fickle indulgences --- Sergio found a balance through searching out happiness outside of the game, outside of the lights. Fernando has felt a sheepish child during a night of drinking and conversation.
«Persígnate y encomiéndate a Dios.»
«Como me voy a encomendar a Dios cuando todos mis pensamientos son en superarlo? A subir a lo mas alto mientras que el Artillero de Arsenal se queda atrás? Como voy a superar mis propias dudas sin lastimar mi orgullo?»
And yet the words reverberated throughout his memories and he couldn't think of another way to deal with pangs of jealousy, with the rising level of rancor and regret. Y Dios decidirá tu suerte.
As the roaring of the crowd grew louder, as the doors of the stadium flung open onto the pitch, Fernando Torres bowed his head, turned to his team and he rushed them forward. Always their venerable captain.
• • •
REBELLION
He had a temper and a pace, a rapidity of movement that swept through the dry cuts of grass and past white lines that lay imperfect amidst green. The white of his boots stroked the ball, beating it, tapping it, coercing it in even beats and long strides to shift in whatever way he wanted it to. His was a game of choler agitated by anyone who tried to out dance him on the pitch, who stumbled into his solo, trying to trip him up while he paused. There were accompanists, but they were peripheral; they were bystanders and they were obstacles, failing at the side-lines and running out of breath in mid-field as he stood for one measure too long.
His was a game of technical agility, not new gentry. Halted entanglements, corners ripped away despite protests sent him into near apoplectic rage; off-sides, fouls, hand balls --- they were all shit. It was all in the way and the barriers blinded him. Five missteps for every fanciful corner he turned and every opening he managed to steal away. A match was based on units, 22 men, their conductors and techs. And van Persie was someone who was split apart by the halted notes of it.
The first yellow had been justified, the second had been a deviation from the score, a sour note that sent him careening out of the game and expulsed into the locker room, kicking and aching. The aftershock of the loss had him pursing his lips, head uplifted, but turned away in apology. I'm sorry. I was angry. We lost. I'm sorry. It was a warble of words and some of them were indifferent, some of them honest, most of them missing.
Cesc' face was wounded, sweaty and pitch-stained it took everything of him to put his shaking hand to Robin's neck and pull him into an awkward hug. The silence of the room echoed out Cesc's intended words: "Stop apologizing and own up to it.". But he couldn't. He knew it, he could taste the disappointment and could feel his captain's frustration.
Showers were taken with only the sound of water and the scent of soap. Questions would come later, disciplinary action and demands. Later he would break it off, he would throw Cesc out of his door, would sit alone and watch a replay of the match. He would sulk and categorize the errors, he would pause and rewind. He would catalog his movements and in his own way own up by admitting to the dark that he was in the wrong.
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