fic: Cadenza for Two Men and a Guitar (Iker Casillas/Esteban Granero, PG-13) for mer5
Title: Cadenza for Two Men and a Guitar
Author: txorakeriak
Fandom: Football RPS, Real Madrid
Pairing: Iker Casillas/Esteban Granero
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I'm a lying bastard and made this all up. I don't claim to know any of the players I write about, they're most definitely not mine, and this very probably didn't happen. No payment involved, no offence intended. This is for my own entertainment.
Summary: Iker is angry with Esteban.
Dedication: For mer5 - merry Christmas, darling!
Word Count: 2,041
Thanks to jennis_footie for the quick beta! *glomps*
Warning: Fluff and a tiny hint of crack. But mostly fluff.
Feedback: Everything is most welcome, from squee to constructive criticism. I even accept rotten tomatoes, so don't be shy. ;)
*****
Iker hasn't spoken a single word to him ever since the match ended, and at first Esteban thinks the keeper is still angry, remembering the abuse Valencia's fans kept shouting at him just because he was there in front of them.
The fact that Iker chooses not to sit next to him on the plane and the team bus doesn’t worry him either. They hardly ever sit together anyway because they don't want to put ideas into their teammates' heads.
However, when they arrive in Madrid and Iker doesn't even say goodbye to him (though, granted, it's just a short-term goodbye considering their plan to meet at Esteban's for once deserted place an hour later) but gets into his car without a word (but with a tell-tale grim look on his face instead), Esteban does start wondering.
Has he done anything wrong? Has he said anything he shouldn't have said, or has he forgotten anything important?
He doesn’t think he has, but one never knows, and if he’s speeding a little as he drives home, if he drops his keys onto the floor and forgets them there, if the food prepares for himself and his guest is slightly burnt when he takes it out of the oven, it's because he can't stop wondering how he has offended Iker.
Finally, the doorbell rings, and Esteban discovers that Iker is, in fact, still speaking to him. Unfortunately, he also discovers that this doesn't exactly make things easier. Instead of a greeting, instead of pulling him into a hug and maybe kissing his neck or placing a quick peck on his cheek before flashing him one of his radiant smiles that make Esteban's knees weak and usually result in the midfielder quickly pushing Iker into the flat and starting to talk about something completely unrelated to them, instead of all this, Iker just gives Esteban a reproachful look and complains, "Why didn't you tell me?"
And it sounds quite like a "Why didn't you tell me?" of the "What, you're married and have five kids?!?!" sort - only not really, because Iker knows that Esteban isn’t married and doesn’t have any kids, and even if he did have a family, Iker wouldn’t be that shocked about it.
In any case, it leaves Esteban completely puzzled; so puzzled, in fact, that he completely forgets to gesture at Iker to come in. He just stares, baffled, as if Iker had just come out as a lesbian or something.
The keeper invites himself in, nudges Esteban away from the door and closes it before the cold gets in, and only when Esteban hears the door shut, he wakes from his stupor and finally asks, "Tell you what, exactly?"
"I never thought you'd keep things from me," Iker says instead of a reply as he takes off his coat and scarf and puts them on a hanger in Esteban's wardrobe. "That I'd have to hear things from the press when I should actually hear them from you."
No, a speaking Iker doesn't make things easier at all, Esteban figures.
"What things?" he asks rather helplessly, and he's genuinely worried now, silently praying to all the saints he can think of at the moment and begging of them that Iker isn't angry with him, that there isn't anything wrong with that thing between them - whatever it is - while at the same time trying to appear casual and brilliantly un-worried.
The keeper looks him straight in the eye. "You play the guitar1."
Esteban frowns. "Yeah, a bit. Why?" He's still not sure what this is all about, and it makes him a little uncomfortable.
"And you chose not to tell me that?" Iker looks very much offended. "May I ask why?"
Slowly, it dawns on Esteban that his teammate has been playing a game with him all along, and he glares at Iker, elbows him in the ribs for misleading him like that, and then pulls him towards the sofa. "I didn't think you were interested," he says with a smile as they both sit down. "And I don't play that well, really."
Iker huffs dramatically. "That's no excuse for keeping this from me. I thought we agreed you could tell me anything, no matter how personal or embarrassing?"
"I know, I-"
The keeper doesn't let him finish. "I tell you everything," he claims, crossing his arms in front of his chest and exaggerating a pout. "I even told you about that time when I barged in on Aragonés naked under the shower, trilling 'Largo al factotum'2 at the top of his lungs the morning before the Euro quarterfinal! That was bloody embarrassing, I couldn't look him in the eye for hours afterwards!"
His eyes, glinting with amusement at the prank he played on his friend, betray his affronted tone, and Esteban can't help snorting at the mental image.
He shifts closer to Iker, nestles against him and tries to look as contrite as possible. "I'm so sorry," he says, playing along perfectly. "How can I make it up to you?"
This is evidently what Iker has been waiting for. Within an instant, his mouth forms a grin, and Esteban mirrors it without thinking, remembering all the times he's successfully made things up to Iker in the past. He could have guessed where this was going, really.
But then, just as Esteban wonders if the food he's prepared will be edible in a cold state or if he has to reheat it later, Iker speaks, and Esteban has to do a double-take before he believes that his teammate hasn't just told him to take off his clothes but something completely different.
"Play something for me." He's still grinning, probably even wider now that he has outwitted his scholar friend a second time.
Esteban stares at him. "What?"
"On your guitar. You have it here, don't you?"
"Uhm - yes, I think so, I… uh…" Esteban's mind is racing. He tries to come up with a plausible excuse that would prevent him from having to play whilst trying to remember where he put the damned guitar the last time he tidied up his room and preparing himself for the disapproving look that would definitely appear on Iker's face after he played because he's not into that kind of music.
"Or do you play for Quique González only?" the keeper probes, his voice slightly edgy, and for a moment Esteban wonders if Iker is actually jealous.
He shakes his head in reply to Iker as well as to himself and gets up. "Wait here."
A minute later he returns with his instrument, a simple nylon-string guitar with few ornaments on its body but a clear, bright sound. A present from his grandfather who could play a lot better and always urged him to practice. It looks a bit worn-out, but it's tougher than it might appear at first glance.
Esteban hardly has to tune it; he often picks it up to get his mind off his job and his studies3, to get away from family stress or to just relax a little, but usually just improvises, or he sticks to chords as he did with Quique. He isn't sure he actually remembers how to play the songs he once learned from his grandfather, and the fact that his head feels completely void of inspiration and ideas makes him feel even worse about playing for Iker.
Biting his lip, he looks up at his friend. "Uhm, I'm sorry, I can't play anything you like."
One might think that after having played for Quique González, Esteban wouldn't be nervous or embarrassed with anyone else, but he does, maybe even more so than with the famous Madrilenian musician.
But Iker shakes his head. "Let me be the judge of that, yes?"
Esteban lets out a little sigh. Here goes, he thinks, and starts playing.
He doesn't strike up anything popular, he doesn't even know if the song he's playing has been published anywhere, he just runs his fingers across the strings, twangs and strokes them, and suddenly his mind is filled with ideas, patterns and fragments from the folkloristic songs his grandfather used to play when there was a party and the whole family came together, and they sat in Grandma's beloved garden, surrounded by bushes and trees and flowers, singing, cheering, laughing.
When he stops playing, it takes him a moment to get his bearings. It's like he's just visited another world in his sleep.
Then Iker applauds and Esteban comes back to reality, cheeks flushing, and he gives his friend a shove. "Stop it."
"What? It was great!"
Esteban swallows in embarrassment, brushes off the compliment with a quick gesture, and hurries to change the topic.
"What about me putting my hands to better use now?" As if to demonstrate his intentions, he runs his fingers along Iker's cheek and neck, making the other man shiver slightly.
Iker smiles at him almost shyly, as if they hadn't crossed this line a hundred times and more already. "You know I can't say no to that," he says, gently ruffling Esteban's wild hair. "But honestly, don't keep things from me."
For a minute Esteban wonders what makes Iker stress the matter like this, sounding almost urgent, as if it were important for them to have no secrets (not even unintentional ones). They've never talked about this silent accommodation between them, never even tried to find a name for it, and even though Esteban has wondered about it more often than not lately, Iker has never given him the impression that he wanted to discuss the matter in depth or make any promises related to it.
And quite possibly he isn't doing anything of the kind now, it's just Esteban's mind that's going crazy because he knows what he wants and doesn't dare to ask for it.
In the end, he decides to just agree. "Okay," he says, and gets up, because the sooner they reach the bedroom, the sooner there will be no more talk, no more cause for too much depth, no more room for misunderstandings. And if he's nervous or embarrassed, it's for different reasons.
Iker takes his stretched out hand and allows himself to be pulled up from the sofa. "Where to, señor mariachi?" he asks, a cheeky grin on his face, then rolls his eyes at himself. "I sound like a damned groupie," he says, chuckling.
Esteban can't help laughing with him. "Come on then, groupie," he says, suddenly feeling confident. "Let me rock the hell out of you."
And when they lie next to each other two hours later, exhausted and euphoric and completely and utterly satisfied, Esteban suddenly shifts closer to Iker and presses a kiss to his cheek.
"I mustn't keep anything to myself, yes?" he says, and his voice is thick and hoarse from breathing too hard.
"That's what we agreed on, didn’t we?" Iker is having trouble speaking, too, but Esteban understands him perfectly.
"Yeah."
"There you have it."
Esteban awkwardly clears his throat. "Okay, uhm… there's one more thing." He's not sure he should actually say anything just now - or, to be exact, he's quite sure that he definitely shouldn't say anything - but the evening hasn't really gone to plan anyway so he figures it doesn't matter. If his guitar hasn't ruined the evening, maybe some words won't, either.
Iker shifts on the bed, moving until they lie face to face. Esteban can see the outline of his smile in the dark as the keeper prods himself up on his elbow.
"You know what?" Iker says after a while. "It's going to make things bloody difficult, but fuck it."
He leans in and presses his mouth against Esteban's, and it's different from all the other kisses he's given him, more tender and meaningful somehow, his hand is cupping Esteban's face as if it had always belonged there, and when they part, Esteban's heart is thudding in his chest and he shivers, feeling hot and cold at the same time.
It's true he's been afraid of saying it, but it appears that Iker has been just as afraid, and somehow words aren't actually needed at all.
Their hands, mouths, bodies find each other in the dark.
___________________________________________________________
1 The famous singer and songwriter Quique González visited Esteban (and Xabi) in Valencia, and Esteban played the guitar for him. (source)
2'Largo al factotum" is the famous aria from Gioachino Rossini's "The Barber of Seville".
3 This is true. Esteban is actually rather good at playing the guitar, and he prefers music to PlayStation.
Author: txorakeriak
Fandom: Football RPS, Real Madrid
Pairing: Iker Casillas/Esteban Granero
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I'm a lying bastard and made this all up. I don't claim to know any of the players I write about, they're most definitely not mine, and this very probably didn't happen. No payment involved, no offence intended. This is for my own entertainment.
Summary: Iker is angry with Esteban.
Dedication: For mer5 - merry Christmas, darling!
Word Count: 2,041
Thanks to jennis_footie for the quick beta! *glomps*
Warning: Fluff and a tiny hint of crack. But mostly fluff.
Feedback: Everything is most welcome, from squee to constructive criticism. I even accept rotten tomatoes, so don't be shy. ;)
*****
Iker hasn't spoken a single word to him ever since the match ended, and at first Esteban thinks the keeper is still angry, remembering the abuse Valencia's fans kept shouting at him just because he was there in front of them.
The fact that Iker chooses not to sit next to him on the plane and the team bus doesn’t worry him either. They hardly ever sit together anyway because they don't want to put ideas into their teammates' heads.
However, when they arrive in Madrid and Iker doesn't even say goodbye to him (though, granted, it's just a short-term goodbye considering their plan to meet at Esteban's for once deserted place an hour later) but gets into his car without a word (but with a tell-tale grim look on his face instead), Esteban does start wondering.
Has he done anything wrong? Has he said anything he shouldn't have said, or has he forgotten anything important?
He doesn’t think he has, but one never knows, and if he’s speeding a little as he drives home, if he drops his keys onto the floor and forgets them there, if the food prepares for himself and his guest is slightly burnt when he takes it out of the oven, it's because he can't stop wondering how he has offended Iker.
Finally, the doorbell rings, and Esteban discovers that Iker is, in fact, still speaking to him. Unfortunately, he also discovers that this doesn't exactly make things easier. Instead of a greeting, instead of pulling him into a hug and maybe kissing his neck or placing a quick peck on his cheek before flashing him one of his radiant smiles that make Esteban's knees weak and usually result in the midfielder quickly pushing Iker into the flat and starting to talk about something completely unrelated to them, instead of all this, Iker just gives Esteban a reproachful look and complains, "Why didn't you tell me?"
And it sounds quite like a "Why didn't you tell me?" of the "What, you're married and have five kids?!?!" sort - only not really, because Iker knows that Esteban isn’t married and doesn’t have any kids, and even if he did have a family, Iker wouldn’t be that shocked about it.
In any case, it leaves Esteban completely puzzled; so puzzled, in fact, that he completely forgets to gesture at Iker to come in. He just stares, baffled, as if Iker had just come out as a lesbian or something.
The keeper invites himself in, nudges Esteban away from the door and closes it before the cold gets in, and only when Esteban hears the door shut, he wakes from his stupor and finally asks, "Tell you what, exactly?"
"I never thought you'd keep things from me," Iker says instead of a reply as he takes off his coat and scarf and puts them on a hanger in Esteban's wardrobe. "That I'd have to hear things from the press when I should actually hear them from you."
No, a speaking Iker doesn't make things easier at all, Esteban figures.
"What things?" he asks rather helplessly, and he's genuinely worried now, silently praying to all the saints he can think of at the moment and begging of them that Iker isn't angry with him, that there isn't anything wrong with that thing between them - whatever it is - while at the same time trying to appear casual and brilliantly un-worried.
The keeper looks him straight in the eye. "You play the guitar1."
Esteban frowns. "Yeah, a bit. Why?" He's still not sure what this is all about, and it makes him a little uncomfortable.
"And you chose not to tell me that?" Iker looks very much offended. "May I ask why?"
Slowly, it dawns on Esteban that his teammate has been playing a game with him all along, and he glares at Iker, elbows him in the ribs for misleading him like that, and then pulls him towards the sofa. "I didn't think you were interested," he says with a smile as they both sit down. "And I don't play that well, really."
Iker huffs dramatically. "That's no excuse for keeping this from me. I thought we agreed you could tell me anything, no matter how personal or embarrassing?"
"I know, I-"
The keeper doesn't let him finish. "I tell you everything," he claims, crossing his arms in front of his chest and exaggerating a pout. "I even told you about that time when I barged in on Aragonés naked under the shower, trilling 'Largo al factotum'2 at the top of his lungs the morning before the Euro quarterfinal! That was bloody embarrassing, I couldn't look him in the eye for hours afterwards!"
His eyes, glinting with amusement at the prank he played on his friend, betray his affronted tone, and Esteban can't help snorting at the mental image.
He shifts closer to Iker, nestles against him and tries to look as contrite as possible. "I'm so sorry," he says, playing along perfectly. "How can I make it up to you?"
This is evidently what Iker has been waiting for. Within an instant, his mouth forms a grin, and Esteban mirrors it without thinking, remembering all the times he's successfully made things up to Iker in the past. He could have guessed where this was going, really.
But then, just as Esteban wonders if the food he's prepared will be edible in a cold state or if he has to reheat it later, Iker speaks, and Esteban has to do a double-take before he believes that his teammate hasn't just told him to take off his clothes but something completely different.
"Play something for me." He's still grinning, probably even wider now that he has outwitted his scholar friend a second time.
Esteban stares at him. "What?"
"On your guitar. You have it here, don't you?"
"Uhm - yes, I think so, I… uh…" Esteban's mind is racing. He tries to come up with a plausible excuse that would prevent him from having to play whilst trying to remember where he put the damned guitar the last time he tidied up his room and preparing himself for the disapproving look that would definitely appear on Iker's face after he played because he's not into that kind of music.
"Or do you play for Quique González only?" the keeper probes, his voice slightly edgy, and for a moment Esteban wonders if Iker is actually jealous.
He shakes his head in reply to Iker as well as to himself and gets up. "Wait here."
A minute later he returns with his instrument, a simple nylon-string guitar with few ornaments on its body but a clear, bright sound. A present from his grandfather who could play a lot better and always urged him to practice. It looks a bit worn-out, but it's tougher than it might appear at first glance.
Esteban hardly has to tune it; he often picks it up to get his mind off his job and his studies3, to get away from family stress or to just relax a little, but usually just improvises, or he sticks to chords as he did with Quique. He isn't sure he actually remembers how to play the songs he once learned from his grandfather, and the fact that his head feels completely void of inspiration and ideas makes him feel even worse about playing for Iker.
Biting his lip, he looks up at his friend. "Uhm, I'm sorry, I can't play anything you like."
One might think that after having played for Quique González, Esteban wouldn't be nervous or embarrassed with anyone else, but he does, maybe even more so than with the famous Madrilenian musician.
But Iker shakes his head. "Let me be the judge of that, yes?"
Esteban lets out a little sigh. Here goes, he thinks, and starts playing.
He doesn't strike up anything popular, he doesn't even know if the song he's playing has been published anywhere, he just runs his fingers across the strings, twangs and strokes them, and suddenly his mind is filled with ideas, patterns and fragments from the folkloristic songs his grandfather used to play when there was a party and the whole family came together, and they sat in Grandma's beloved garden, surrounded by bushes and trees and flowers, singing, cheering, laughing.
When he stops playing, it takes him a moment to get his bearings. It's like he's just visited another world in his sleep.
Then Iker applauds and Esteban comes back to reality, cheeks flushing, and he gives his friend a shove. "Stop it."
"What? It was great!"
Esteban swallows in embarrassment, brushes off the compliment with a quick gesture, and hurries to change the topic.
"What about me putting my hands to better use now?" As if to demonstrate his intentions, he runs his fingers along Iker's cheek and neck, making the other man shiver slightly.
Iker smiles at him almost shyly, as if they hadn't crossed this line a hundred times and more already. "You know I can't say no to that," he says, gently ruffling Esteban's wild hair. "But honestly, don't keep things from me."
For a minute Esteban wonders what makes Iker stress the matter like this, sounding almost urgent, as if it were important for them to have no secrets (not even unintentional ones). They've never talked about this silent accommodation between them, never even tried to find a name for it, and even though Esteban has wondered about it more often than not lately, Iker has never given him the impression that he wanted to discuss the matter in depth or make any promises related to it.
And quite possibly he isn't doing anything of the kind now, it's just Esteban's mind that's going crazy because he knows what he wants and doesn't dare to ask for it.
In the end, he decides to just agree. "Okay," he says, and gets up, because the sooner they reach the bedroom, the sooner there will be no more talk, no more cause for too much depth, no more room for misunderstandings. And if he's nervous or embarrassed, it's for different reasons.
Iker takes his stretched out hand and allows himself to be pulled up from the sofa. "Where to, señor mariachi?" he asks, a cheeky grin on his face, then rolls his eyes at himself. "I sound like a damned groupie," he says, chuckling.
Esteban can't help laughing with him. "Come on then, groupie," he says, suddenly feeling confident. "Let me rock the hell out of you."
And when they lie next to each other two hours later, exhausted and euphoric and completely and utterly satisfied, Esteban suddenly shifts closer to Iker and presses a kiss to his cheek.
"I mustn't keep anything to myself, yes?" he says, and his voice is thick and hoarse from breathing too hard.
"That's what we agreed on, didn’t we?" Iker is having trouble speaking, too, but Esteban understands him perfectly.
"Yeah."
"There you have it."
Esteban awkwardly clears his throat. "Okay, uhm… there's one more thing." He's not sure he should actually say anything just now - or, to be exact, he's quite sure that he definitely shouldn't say anything - but the evening hasn't really gone to plan anyway so he figures it doesn't matter. If his guitar hasn't ruined the evening, maybe some words won't, either.
Iker shifts on the bed, moving until they lie face to face. Esteban can see the outline of his smile in the dark as the keeper prods himself up on his elbow.
"You know what?" Iker says after a while. "It's going to make things bloody difficult, but fuck it."
He leans in and presses his mouth against Esteban's, and it's different from all the other kisses he's given him, more tender and meaningful somehow, his hand is cupping Esteban's face as if it had always belonged there, and when they part, Esteban's heart is thudding in his chest and he shivers, feeling hot and cold at the same time.
It's true he's been afraid of saying it, but it appears that Iker has been just as afraid, and somehow words aren't actually needed at all.
Their hands, mouths, bodies find each other in the dark.
___________________________________________________________
1 The famous singer and songwriter Quique González visited Esteban (and Xabi) in Valencia, and Esteban played the guitar for him. (source)
2'Largo al factotum" is the famous aria from Gioachino Rossini's "The Barber of Seville".
3 This is true. Esteban is actually rather good at playing the guitar, and he prefers music to PlayStation.