[Football] O HAY
My wisdom teeth have officially killed my ability to think, to function or to last more than a few minutes without the right side of my jaw hurting like a motherfucker. WINNAR.
But on the plus side I'm currently in a capslocking, flaily enough mood to post this. It's still in beta mode, so any comments would be appreciated? I DUNNO, GUYS. IT FEELS FLAT AND UNFINISHED AND I SHOULD EDIT IT X 100000 I should have forced someone to beta for me, but I'm impatient and um... I wanted to share the Sergio lulz. This was written days before the Z/N ones posted before this. And if I can manage it, there will be at least a part deux? :D
Higuaín/Gago. Rambly and all over the place and rough -- but it has SERGIO, THE KING OF ALL THINGS GAUDY.
• • •
O F T W O Y O U N G M E N
•
Juego de Ajedrez
•
Ah. It was beginning to clarify. The boy was sick. Sick with a kind of hero worship and it was melting together for Gonzalo Higuaín. It had started the day Fernando had been witness to Sergio's story time with the Real kiddies. He and Gago had arrived - prepared to meet with the team - with Raul, with the rest of the golden kings. Anxiety laced his morning tea, covered his breakfast like a glazing of sugar and he was intoxicated with it.
Sergio was one of the only first team starters who made an effort to cavort with the young players and they adored him - were bemused by him and Sergio glowed in his shimmering white suit and effervescent sunglasses and ties. He was sitting on an overturned water bucket, ringed hands flying in front of him while the boys looked up, laying on the pitch while the older boys stood beside him and around those that were sitting down.
Higuaín had been especially concerned with the stadium, with the locker rooms, in absorbing his first day and beginning his time there correctly. Gago, in turn, had spent an hour ironing out his curls, face rapt with concentration. Gonzalo looked at him now. The hair was still silken and flat, but windswept, wisping about Fernando's face as his eyes widened, lips parting just slightly. Higuaín knew what he wanted was to run over and sit his €20 million butt on the grass.
"He's probably teaching them new techniques. Gonzo - seriously. Look at his hands. Do you think he's teaching them some sign-language? Do you think that he's letting them in on some secrets? Okay - okay." He was nearly dancing and Higuaín has to force himself to be light-handed when he hit him with his duffel bag.
"Fernando, stop. You're not here for stories."
"I could be missing out on something fantastic. Something greater than myself. That's Sergio Ramos. The 32 million euro man. Oh, god. He's wearing Fendi glasses. Fuck it. I'm going over there."
Gonzalo's hand was left empty as Gago pulled out of his reach. Sighing, he resigned himself, following the lead of flouncy hair.
Sergio had a devil-only-knows smile on his face, hands passing through the air as his fingers steepled to form a particularly convoluted gesture and as they approached, Gonzalo could hear his cheerful voice amid twittering laughter. Sergio was leaning forward into the faces of his enraptured audience, using his entire body to tell his story.
"And then she said 'okay', so I fucked her up the ass!" Sergio was nearly glittering at this point, laughing broadly with the rest of the boys as he caught Gago and Higuaín's approach. "Oy! Here come your new heroes, boys and girls. Pintita, Pipita. I've no idea who is who." He stood, walking a few steps to take Gago's hand in his own. "Sergio Ramos, para servirte, y para complacerte, pequeño."1
Gonzalo felt his stomach lining begin to fizzle away when he heard him. He was only a few years older than them. And several centimeters worth of leg shorter. ¿Pequeños? Este hombre sumamente maricon puesto en frente de Gago hacia el ex-Boca Junior parecer macho. Gonzalo en ese momento se sentía herido, quería dar la vuelta y desaparecer completamente.2 As Gago began to speak in a quickfire of Argentine slang, affecting a near Madrinista lisp, Gonzalo Higuaín, the pride of River, wanted to wash his hand clean of perfume and pricey lotions, wanted to find Raul or Iker Casillas to hide himself underneath a sheen of sweat before the very air he breathed became tainted.
•
He was punchy, twitchy. Impossible to separate from his cell phone, which he clutched in his coat's pocket, holding it as one would hold a panic button. Just call, just call and ask them to switch your room. Tell them that you've had enough of mother-country bonding. That you want someone who can handle a bit of French. LIE, Gonzalo. Lie and tell them that you want some Français, some practice pour ta deuxième langue.
He was still in his room, white underwear peeking up from the top of his Speedracer pajamas. He'd slept in a state of embarrassment, clutching the goose-down pillow his mother had packed for him, frightened of Gago's labored breathing (faulty sinuses, he's been warned) and disgusted by his apparent piousness. (Fernando Pintita Gago prayed an entire rosary before bed, showered for an hour (with cold water) and offered him the use of any products littered along the surface of their sink). Gonzalo had given up his second thin blanket when a shivering Gago had asked him for it.
"You said that you have a good tolerance for the cold." "I do." "Give me your extra blanket then." So he had. Now his toes were frozen and he so desperately wanted to shift over his bed until he could reach out to place the soles of his feet against the warm sides of Fernando's back.
•
He wouldn't have been so bothered by the ever present sounds of Soda Stereo on constant loop. But Gago sang along. He sang along to every song and every other line was wrong. Lyrics were switched and made up as he hummed along in a strong, surprisingly even tenor. He would often stick Gonzalo's name in - "Gonzo ~ Gonzo ~ dime que me amas, que me A-D-O-R-A-S~!"3
Gonzo. He couldn't believe it. It was sick. He had no other words or descriptions. SICK. That was the common theme of the man. SICKNESS OF THE MIND. Who would take a perfectly respectable name like Gonzalo and morph it into something like GONZO. A fucking muppet. A blue muppet. He didn't even like the color blue. It was just insult after insult with that bastard.
• • •
El Gonzo was a stick-in-the-fucking-mud. His taste in music and clothing - pastimes and facial expressions were faulty. They were the worst of all possible worlds. The worse of all possible choices. Gago swore that he could feel layers of skin searing off anytime they were in a room together. Almost as if Gonzalo was really trying to burn him off the face of the planet with the power of his mind.
Fernando smiled, thinking back to the first day they had met as teammates. Grudgingly shaking hands, wanting to probably beat the shit of each other only because they were from rival clubs. But it meant everything once. River. Boca. Winning titles and accolades in the Argentinean league. It was everything just a few months ago. But now he had to deal with this shitty brat and his inability to take a joke. So it had been on a train ride when Gonzalo was staring at the back of his head hard enough he'd started getting a headache, that Fernando turned around, smiled, offered him one of his extra pillows and called him Gonzo. He had really thought Higuaín was going to wrap those long fingers around his throat and strangle him in front of everyone. And how embarrassing would that have been?
• • •
He was taken out of the match early on. Fernando stopped looking toward him when it happened. Stopped paying any attention at all, so that he could look to Sergio, who was still injured but beaming up in the stands. There was a shock beauty to the night enclosed by fog. The stands were full and they were brimming over in hope. Don't let me down, they seemed to be singing. Don't let me down. And he hadn't wanted to, had not wanted to keep lingering. Thousands of white flags had been raised; they had been twirled about at the end of their previous match. Gonzalo was a shriveled, child-like giant. He felt like he'd nearly been drenched, suffocated by the supporters. They were sick of waiting. They were sick of hoping. It was like losing one's religion, like finding out that the only thing behind the gauze curtains were images propped up by cardboard stands. It was a disenchantment. Did he and Gago really think that they could change the deconstructed path? There had been too many stories of Raul and his gilded cage. Too many of them left open for conjectures. He's lost it. He's past it. He'll never play on the world stage again. The once and future king is no longer.
Gonzalo did not want to end up the mangy phoenix, property of a sleeping colossus who would not let it burst to flames and renew itself.
Fairytales tell lies. He should have known about all of that - he should have seen more of a warning.
•
First Real Madrid goal. Gago had congratulated him and gone off to play hide the salami with Sergio - or whatever else it was that they did together. "Chess," Gago told him over and over again. "He's excellent at chess." "Juega ajedrez? No me jodas, por favor."4 Ajedrez. Sergio, that too tanned, too smooth, overly foppish man playing chess. "It's a good mental exercise." "I'm so sure."
The next day, Sergio was wearing a single Chanel earring. Diamonds. "Expensive," Gago said. "Cheap looking," Higuaín retorted. And it did and it was. And Sergio had given Fernando the matching one. Gonzalo has wanted to rip it out of Sergio's ear when he took them out to lunch. It was so fucking gaudy. They were new and how the fuck to explain matching earrings and matching hair and daily visits and who goes to a skeezy Spaniard's apartment for chess? How could anyone possibly concentrate while being engulfed in the over-indulgence?
Gonzalo had a salad as he was attempting to abstain from eating too many rich foods. Predictably they ordered expensive sea-food - crab and oysters soaked in white wine. They spoke of chess. CHESS. Ajedrez. Kings and queens, rooks and bishops. Pawns. Sergio's ability to disguise tactics, to layer movements so deeply that Fernando had still not won. "Te gusta el ajedrez, Gonzo?" Gonzalo nearly snapped his fork in half. When did anyone else except for - what the hell? "No." "Lastima." Sergio dropped his napkin on the table, snapping his manicured fingers for the check. He's long since stopped trying to engage him and Higuaín was more than happy for it.
•
"Why don't you like him?" "I like him." "He's your teammate, Gonzalo. Your senior." "I said I like him just fine." "I'm your roommate, Gonzo. Don't lie to me." Gonzalo stopped answering his questions after that.
•
It was their twenty-fifth practice. Hot and smooth-muscled, he felt light - a change from the weighted air he'd been breathing. But his temperament was changing and he didn't think he could stand another set of days with the Boca-spawn. It was a slap in the face. Did the Real management really not know anything about Argentine club rivalry? Did they really know nothing about the Super Clásico? How could they think to attach him to the brat?
Gonzalo barely recognized him throughout the day. Hair up, hair down. Dry and fluffed. Tangled, sleek and wet, pelt-like and ironed. He woke up to the scent of his deodorant. Sometimes, Gonzalo sprayed his sheets with linen fragrance he was so scared he'd end up reeking of Gago's plum and heavy wood-scented colognes. He didn't want to wake up in the middle of the night thinking that Fernando's citrus shower gel was clinging to the rough skin of a body bent against his mattress. He did not want to confuse scents for the real thing. And so he'd asked their cleaning lady for some linen spray and she'd pulled through with a blue bottle that claimed to be aloe vera and water lily.
• • •
That River-spawn was ticking him off. He didn't want him. He didn't want him and he'd have to do things his own way. He was looking for a flat. Something nearby so that he could still come back to their pre-paid apartment without arousing too much suspicion. So far everything was too inadequate and too expensive. The prices he was willing to go with resulted in shit properties or those that were decent were too far away. He searched all day, finding nothing that pleased him and so he turned down several invitations to dinners and late night outings.
He returned back too late to care about showering but full enough awake to try and be a decent human being and not wake up his gigantic shit of a roommate. He dropped off his boots, wallet and belt on the living room couch, switching off all of the lights as he used the dim display screen of his cell phone to lead him to bed. Shutting the door, he peeled off his socks, tossing them in the general vicinity of his nightstand. The shirt he'd been wearing was stuffed under the bed and as he punched at his bed to try and unearth his pillows, his nose caught the scent of something sweet. Standing in the dark, one hand on his comforter, the other palming his phone, Gago sniffed the air again. It was definitely not something of his. But it smelled good. Like something you would want to take baths in. Like something you remarkably hadn't realized you needed.
Gonzo? Apprehensive, he let his steps fall lightly on the carpet, hoping that he wouldn't collide with any of Gonzalo's belongings. Eyes having adjusted to the dark, he could make out Higuaín's coarse mop of hair and his enormous hands, which rested palm-down on the striped mattress. Fernando leaned forward and the smell was stronger. Was it flowers? He still couldn't tell. Leaning in centimeters away from Gonzalo's neck, he took in a deep breath. It was definitely some kind of flower - what the hell kind of aftershave was he using?
• • •
Gonzalo's eyes flew open as he brought his hand up, half-palming the monster's face and shoving it away from his bed.
"¡GONZO! ¿¡HIJO DE PUTA, QUE HACES?!"5
"Gago?" The name came out half-formed as he flipped on his reading lamp. Fernando was sitting on the floor beside him, face splashed in a pretty shade of red. No shirt, skin flushed; face, neck, chest. So angry that the veins in his hands looked prominent enough to burst any minute. "Why were you standing next to me?"
Fernando opened his mouth to sputter out another string of curses, but stopped himself before he started talking about lilies and false scents and asking where he could get some of the same. Getting up, he slapped his hand over Gonzalo's lamp, turning it back off. "Just go the fuck to bed."
Gonzalo laid back down, dragging his comforter all the way up to his chin even though he could feel the sweat beginning to pool around his ears. His bedside clock ticked off the erratic beating of his pulse. His throat was closed off and he wanted to stop breathing. Wanted so badly to just pass out and in the morning blame Fernando Gago for all of his health problems.
There was little sleep that night for either of them and when there was, Gago rolled around, murmuring about curly hair and Gonzalo had dreams drenched in purple hues.
But on the plus side I'm currently in a capslocking, flaily enough mood to post this. It's still in beta mode, so any comments would be appreciated? I DUNNO, GUYS. IT FEELS FLAT AND UNFINISHED AND I SHOULD EDIT IT X 100000 I should have forced someone to beta for me, but I'm impatient and um... I wanted to share the Sergio lulz. This was written days before the Z/N ones posted before this. And if I can manage it, there will be at least a part deux? :D
Higuaín/Gago. Rambly and all over the place and rough -- but it has SERGIO, THE KING OF ALL THINGS GAUDY.
• • •
O F T W O Y O U N G M E N
•
Juego de Ajedrez
•
Ah. It was beginning to clarify. The boy was sick. Sick with a kind of hero worship and it was melting together for Gonzalo Higuaín. It had started the day Fernando had been witness to Sergio's story time with the Real kiddies. He and Gago had arrived - prepared to meet with the team - with Raul, with the rest of the golden kings. Anxiety laced his morning tea, covered his breakfast like a glazing of sugar and he was intoxicated with it.
Sergio was one of the only first team starters who made an effort to cavort with the young players and they adored him - were bemused by him and Sergio glowed in his shimmering white suit and effervescent sunglasses and ties. He was sitting on an overturned water bucket, ringed hands flying in front of him while the boys looked up, laying on the pitch while the older boys stood beside him and around those that were sitting down.
Higuaín had been especially concerned with the stadium, with the locker rooms, in absorbing his first day and beginning his time there correctly. Gago, in turn, had spent an hour ironing out his curls, face rapt with concentration. Gonzalo looked at him now. The hair was still silken and flat, but windswept, wisping about Fernando's face as his eyes widened, lips parting just slightly. Higuaín knew what he wanted was to run over and sit his €20 million butt on the grass.
"He's probably teaching them new techniques. Gonzo - seriously. Look at his hands. Do you think he's teaching them some sign-language? Do you think that he's letting them in on some secrets? Okay - okay." He was nearly dancing and Higuaín has to force himself to be light-handed when he hit him with his duffel bag.
"Fernando, stop. You're not here for stories."
"I could be missing out on something fantastic. Something greater than myself. That's Sergio Ramos. The 32 million euro man. Oh, god. He's wearing Fendi glasses. Fuck it. I'm going over there."
Gonzalo's hand was left empty as Gago pulled out of his reach. Sighing, he resigned himself, following the lead of flouncy hair.
Sergio had a devil-only-knows smile on his face, hands passing through the air as his fingers steepled to form a particularly convoluted gesture and as they approached, Gonzalo could hear his cheerful voice amid twittering laughter. Sergio was leaning forward into the faces of his enraptured audience, using his entire body to tell his story.
"And then she said 'okay', so I fucked her up the ass!" Sergio was nearly glittering at this point, laughing broadly with the rest of the boys as he caught Gago and Higuaín's approach. "Oy! Here come your new heroes, boys and girls. Pintita, Pipita. I've no idea who is who." He stood, walking a few steps to take Gago's hand in his own. "Sergio Ramos, para servirte, y para complacerte, pequeño."1
Gonzalo felt his stomach lining begin to fizzle away when he heard him. He was only a few years older than them. And several centimeters worth of leg shorter. ¿Pequeños? Este hombre sumamente maricon puesto en frente de Gago hacia el ex-Boca Junior parecer macho. Gonzalo en ese momento se sentía herido, quería dar la vuelta y desaparecer completamente.2 As Gago began to speak in a quickfire of Argentine slang, affecting a near Madrinista lisp, Gonzalo Higuaín, the pride of River, wanted to wash his hand clean of perfume and pricey lotions, wanted to find Raul or Iker Casillas to hide himself underneath a sheen of sweat before the very air he breathed became tainted.
•
He was punchy, twitchy. Impossible to separate from his cell phone, which he clutched in his coat's pocket, holding it as one would hold a panic button. Just call, just call and ask them to switch your room. Tell them that you've had enough of mother-country bonding. That you want someone who can handle a bit of French. LIE, Gonzalo. Lie and tell them that you want some Français, some practice pour ta deuxième langue.
He was still in his room, white underwear peeking up from the top of his Speedracer pajamas. He'd slept in a state of embarrassment, clutching the goose-down pillow his mother had packed for him, frightened of Gago's labored breathing (faulty sinuses, he's been warned) and disgusted by his apparent piousness. (Fernando Pintita Gago prayed an entire rosary before bed, showered for an hour (with cold water) and offered him the use of any products littered along the surface of their sink). Gonzalo had given up his second thin blanket when a shivering Gago had asked him for it.
"You said that you have a good tolerance for the cold." "I do." "Give me your extra blanket then." So he had. Now his toes were frozen and he so desperately wanted to shift over his bed until he could reach out to place the soles of his feet against the warm sides of Fernando's back.
•
He wouldn't have been so bothered by the ever present sounds of Soda Stereo on constant loop. But Gago sang along. He sang along to every song and every other line was wrong. Lyrics were switched and made up as he hummed along in a strong, surprisingly even tenor. He would often stick Gonzalo's name in - "Gonzo ~ Gonzo ~ dime que me amas, que me A-D-O-R-A-S~!"3
Gonzo. He couldn't believe it. It was sick. He had no other words or descriptions. SICK. That was the common theme of the man. SICKNESS OF THE MIND. Who would take a perfectly respectable name like Gonzalo and morph it into something like GONZO. A fucking muppet. A blue muppet. He didn't even like the color blue. It was just insult after insult with that bastard.
• • •
El Gonzo was a stick-in-the-fucking-mud. His taste in music and clothing - pastimes and facial expressions were faulty. They were the worst of all possible worlds. The worse of all possible choices. Gago swore that he could feel layers of skin searing off anytime they were in a room together. Almost as if Gonzalo was really trying to burn him off the face of the planet with the power of his mind.
Fernando smiled, thinking back to the first day they had met as teammates. Grudgingly shaking hands, wanting to probably beat the shit of each other only because they were from rival clubs. But it meant everything once. River. Boca. Winning titles and accolades in the Argentinean league. It was everything just a few months ago. But now he had to deal with this shitty brat and his inability to take a joke. So it had been on a train ride when Gonzalo was staring at the back of his head hard enough he'd started getting a headache, that Fernando turned around, smiled, offered him one of his extra pillows and called him Gonzo. He had really thought Higuaín was going to wrap those long fingers around his throat and strangle him in front of everyone. And how embarrassing would that have been?
• • •
He was taken out of the match early on. Fernando stopped looking toward him when it happened. Stopped paying any attention at all, so that he could look to Sergio, who was still injured but beaming up in the stands. There was a shock beauty to the night enclosed by fog. The stands were full and they were brimming over in hope. Don't let me down, they seemed to be singing. Don't let me down. And he hadn't wanted to, had not wanted to keep lingering. Thousands of white flags had been raised; they had been twirled about at the end of their previous match. Gonzalo was a shriveled, child-like giant. He felt like he'd nearly been drenched, suffocated by the supporters. They were sick of waiting. They were sick of hoping. It was like losing one's religion, like finding out that the only thing behind the gauze curtains were images propped up by cardboard stands. It was a disenchantment. Did he and Gago really think that they could change the deconstructed path? There had been too many stories of Raul and his gilded cage. Too many of them left open for conjectures. He's lost it. He's past it. He'll never play on the world stage again. The once and future king is no longer.
Gonzalo did not want to end up the mangy phoenix, property of a sleeping colossus who would not let it burst to flames and renew itself.
Fairytales tell lies. He should have known about all of that - he should have seen more of a warning.
•
First Real Madrid goal. Gago had congratulated him and gone off to play hide the salami with Sergio - or whatever else it was that they did together. "Chess," Gago told him over and over again. "He's excellent at chess." "Juega ajedrez? No me jodas, por favor."4 Ajedrez. Sergio, that too tanned, too smooth, overly foppish man playing chess. "It's a good mental exercise." "I'm so sure."
The next day, Sergio was wearing a single Chanel earring. Diamonds. "Expensive," Gago said. "Cheap looking," Higuaín retorted. And it did and it was. And Sergio had given Fernando the matching one. Gonzalo has wanted to rip it out of Sergio's ear when he took them out to lunch. It was so fucking gaudy. They were new and how the fuck to explain matching earrings and matching hair and daily visits and who goes to a skeezy Spaniard's apartment for chess? How could anyone possibly concentrate while being engulfed in the over-indulgence?
Gonzalo had a salad as he was attempting to abstain from eating too many rich foods. Predictably they ordered expensive sea-food - crab and oysters soaked in white wine. They spoke of chess. CHESS. Ajedrez. Kings and queens, rooks and bishops. Pawns. Sergio's ability to disguise tactics, to layer movements so deeply that Fernando had still not won. "Te gusta el ajedrez, Gonzo?" Gonzalo nearly snapped his fork in half. When did anyone else except for - what the hell? "No." "Lastima." Sergio dropped his napkin on the table, snapping his manicured fingers for the check. He's long since stopped trying to engage him and Higuaín was more than happy for it.
•
"Why don't you like him?" "I like him." "He's your teammate, Gonzalo. Your senior." "I said I like him just fine." "I'm your roommate, Gonzo. Don't lie to me." Gonzalo stopped answering his questions after that.
•
It was their twenty-fifth practice. Hot and smooth-muscled, he felt light - a change from the weighted air he'd been breathing. But his temperament was changing and he didn't think he could stand another set of days with the Boca-spawn. It was a slap in the face. Did the Real management really not know anything about Argentine club rivalry? Did they really know nothing about the Super Clásico? How could they think to attach him to the brat?
Gonzalo barely recognized him throughout the day. Hair up, hair down. Dry and fluffed. Tangled, sleek and wet, pelt-like and ironed. He woke up to the scent of his deodorant. Sometimes, Gonzalo sprayed his sheets with linen fragrance he was so scared he'd end up reeking of Gago's plum and heavy wood-scented colognes. He didn't want to wake up in the middle of the night thinking that Fernando's citrus shower gel was clinging to the rough skin of a body bent against his mattress. He did not want to confuse scents for the real thing. And so he'd asked their cleaning lady for some linen spray and she'd pulled through with a blue bottle that claimed to be aloe vera and water lily.
• • •
That River-spawn was ticking him off. He didn't want him. He didn't want him and he'd have to do things his own way. He was looking for a flat. Something nearby so that he could still come back to their pre-paid apartment without arousing too much suspicion. So far everything was too inadequate and too expensive. The prices he was willing to go with resulted in shit properties or those that were decent were too far away. He searched all day, finding nothing that pleased him and so he turned down several invitations to dinners and late night outings.
He returned back too late to care about showering but full enough awake to try and be a decent human being and not wake up his gigantic shit of a roommate. He dropped off his boots, wallet and belt on the living room couch, switching off all of the lights as he used the dim display screen of his cell phone to lead him to bed. Shutting the door, he peeled off his socks, tossing them in the general vicinity of his nightstand. The shirt he'd been wearing was stuffed under the bed and as he punched at his bed to try and unearth his pillows, his nose caught the scent of something sweet. Standing in the dark, one hand on his comforter, the other palming his phone, Gago sniffed the air again. It was definitely not something of his. But it smelled good. Like something you would want to take baths in. Like something you remarkably hadn't realized you needed.
Gonzo? Apprehensive, he let his steps fall lightly on the carpet, hoping that he wouldn't collide with any of Gonzalo's belongings. Eyes having adjusted to the dark, he could make out Higuaín's coarse mop of hair and his enormous hands, which rested palm-down on the striped mattress. Fernando leaned forward and the smell was stronger. Was it flowers? He still couldn't tell. Leaning in centimeters away from Gonzalo's neck, he took in a deep breath. It was definitely some kind of flower - what the hell kind of aftershave was he using?
• • •
Gonzalo's eyes flew open as he brought his hand up, half-palming the monster's face and shoving it away from his bed.
"¡GONZO! ¿¡HIJO DE PUTA, QUE HACES?!"5
"Gago?" The name came out half-formed as he flipped on his reading lamp. Fernando was sitting on the floor beside him, face splashed in a pretty shade of red. No shirt, skin flushed; face, neck, chest. So angry that the veins in his hands looked prominent enough to burst any minute. "Why were you standing next to me?"
Fernando opened his mouth to sputter out another string of curses, but stopped himself before he started talking about lilies and false scents and asking where he could get some of the same. Getting up, he slapped his hand over Gonzalo's lamp, turning it back off. "Just go the fuck to bed."
Gonzalo laid back down, dragging his comforter all the way up to his chin even though he could feel the sweat beginning to pool around his ears. His bedside clock ticked off the erratic beating of his pulse. His throat was closed off and he wanted to stop breathing. Wanted so badly to just pass out and in the morning blame Fernando Gago for all of his health problems.
There was little sleep that night for either of them and when there was, Gago rolled around, murmuring about curly hair and Gonzalo had dreams drenched in purple hues.