fic: Dilemma (Josep Guardiola/Lionel Messi, NC-17)
Title: Dilemma
Author: txorakeriak
Fandom: Football RPS / FC Barcelona
Pairing: Josep Guardiola/Lionel Messi
Rating: NC-17
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: Some things aren't meant to be easy.
Dedication: For dfotw. I love you, darling, and I hope you like this, even though it's probably completely unlike what you requested. *hides*
Word Count: 2,744
A/N: I have no clue whether Pep had a grandma who lost almost all her teeth, but to be honest, I doubt it.
Allergy Warning: May contain traces of smut and idealistic heroics. Read at own risk.
Thanks to the awesome jennis_footie for the speedy beta! *hugs*
Feedback: Everything is most welcome, from squee to constructive criticism. I even accept rotten tomatoes, so don't be shy. ;)
*****
He's alone on the pitch, surrounded by nothing but grass and landscape while the others are probably still having lunch. There's a rare silence in the air. No cars, no planes, no chatter; just some birds in the trees and some crickets in the freshly mowed grass. The sun is burning down on him; it's summer, thirty-five degrees, a cloudless sky. He loves summer.
He takes a gulp of water, then tosses the bottle to the ground next to the others. His shirt is sticky from this morning's training, so he takes it off and ties it into the goal net, leaving it to dry. Droplets of sweat run down his back, his sides, his stomach.
As he bends down to get another training shirt from the duffel bag next to the goal, he suddenly feels a strong body pressing up against him, pushing him against the goalpost. Lionel gasps, reaching out for the net to keep his balance. A possessive arm wraps around him and pulls him up, causing him to drop back against the other man's chest. Laboured breath, hot and heavy with arousal, hits Lionel's neck, and he can feel himself grow hard in his boxers. The familiar scent of cologne and something else fills his nose, making his heartbeat quicken instinctively. Through the fabric of their training kits, he feels Pep's growing erection between his butt cheeks. God, how he wants this. How he wants him.
Dazed with lust he pushes back against Pep and starts grinding against him, faster and faster, until Pep growls into his ear, digs a hand into Lionel's shorts and boxers, and curls it around the winger's rock-hard cock. Lionel groans out and bucks his hips, wanting to come so bad, but Pep doesn't let him. He strokes him slowly, languidly, until the winger is reduced to begging, please, please, please.
He spreads his legs without having to be told or encouraged to, and finally, Pep gives in, yanking down Lionel's shorts and pushing a pair of slick fingers into him. Lionel sighs at the touch, spreading his legs further as he is being stretched, and it feels good, so good, but it's not enough. He wants more. Please… take me, take me, please… He's reduced to begging, but he doesn't care, and finally Pep has mercy on him, removes his fingers, and then enters him with one hard thrust, and Lionel almost weeps at the sensation.
His hands get tangled in the goal net as he tries to steady himself, too shaky, too horny, too overwhelmed by Pep's passionate thrusts, the way he pants hoarsely into Lionel's ear, the way his fingers dig into Lionel's hips as if he wants to own him completely and doesn't know that he already does.
"Lio? Hey, dwarf, you listening?"
A rough nudge sends Lionel flying against the back of the net, and only when he looks up and finds Gerard Piqué looming over him does the winger realise that he's just been daydreaming, right in the middle of a training session. Blushing, he picks himself up and tries to be as inconspicuous as possible as he adjusts his clothes, hoping nobody spotted the raging hard-on in his shorts. God, how embarrassing.
Gerard flashes him one of his typical wide grins. "Come on, stop dreaming, we're supposed to hit each other with that ball." He points towards a big blue ball. "Or, well, actually I didn't quite catch what we're supposed to do. Hey, coach!"
"No!" Lionel almost screams at that. "We can ask someone else!" The last thing he wants right now is seeing Pep and being reminded of his fantasy, but the coach is on his way already, and Lionel bites his lip, puts on his most innocent look and tries to disappear behind the goalpost as Pep, patient as always, explains the training exercise for a second time.
***
With a sigh, Pep tosses his notebook and his pen onto the bench, sits down and starts unlacing his shoes, only to stop right in his tracks when he hears a sound from the showers. He didn't expect anyone to still be here, considering that training ended an hour ago and he only just finished his line-up for the upcoming match. His forehead transforms into a light frown as he gets up from the bench and walks over to the shower door to check if everything is all right.
The sight nearly makes him recoil. In the far right corner of the room, Lionel Messi is standing with his legs spread wide, facing the wall as his hand moves in a tell-tale fashion in his lap region. Pep's throat goes dry. He knows he should turn away, pretend nothing happened, try and get the image out of his head, but he can't. He's frozen to the spot, unable to tear his gaze away from the sinfully delicious sight of the world's best player jerking himself off.
When he suddenly reaches behind himself and starts to finger his sensitive hole, Pep breaks out in cold sweat. His briefs are suddenly way too tight, he's harder than he remembers having ever been in his entire life, and he digs his hand into his trackpants, unable to endure the tension any longer. He starts stroking himself, trying to adopt Lionel's rhythm, but it's not enough. He wants him, needs him, needs to be inside him, and he hates himself for it because he's not supposed to feel those things about his best player. Newspapers and pundits may have labelled him superhuman, but that doesn't change anything about the fact that he's just a guy, flawed, imperfect, driven by his feelings and desires.
He takes off his clothes in silence and steps into the shower room, slowly approaching Lionel who looks even more delectable up close, with his wet hair clinging to his neck in wide strands, and the little droplets of water running down his back and disappearing between his pert butt cheeks. The younger man's eyes are closed, his mouth slightly open, and he moans softly as he pleasures himself, sending a jolt of lust straight to Pep's groin. The coach gulps. His cock is painfully hard, and his heart is beating like a train from hell, threatening to explode in his chest.
A few more steps, and he is as close to Lionel as he can be without touching him, but the younger man still doesn't seem to have picked up on his presence, and Pep can't wait any longer.
"Let me give you a hand," he says hoarsely, because it's the first thing that comes to his mind.
Lionel spins around, eyes like saucers, probably expecting to be told off and punished, and Pep takes advantage of the young man's momentary paralysis to grab him, push him against the wall and press his mouth to Lionel's in a fiery, passionate kiss.
The winger doesn't take long to recover from his initial shock. Only a few seconds later, he wraps his arms around Pep and kisses him back, and when Pep instinctively lifts him up, Lionel's legs immediately curl around the older man's waist.
"Please, coach," Lionel gasps into Pep's mouth as he pulls back to fill his lungs with air, "please, fuck me, please…"
The words make Pep's heart swell with joy and pride and his cock twitch in anticipation, and he decides to waste no more time. He pulls Lionel up slightly, grabs his own cock and positions it against the younger man's waiting entrance.
"Fuck, yes, do it," Lionel coaxes, looking at him through half-closed eyes and licking his lips, "give it to me… I need it, I want it… give me your cock…"
And Pep, completely overwhelmed by the animalistic lust running through his veins, complies and pushes in, groaning out at the tight, tight heat around his cock that almost drives him over the edge right then and there.
"Fuck, yes, coach… Oh coach… coach… Coach! Coach!"
A sharp tug against his shirt pulls Pep back into reality, and he finds himself staring like an idiot into the face of Carles Puyol while his own quickly turns crimson.
He clears his throat, wondering how to save this horribly awkward situation, then opts for briskness. "What is it?" he says curtly, trying to conceal the hoarseness in his voice. "I'm not deaf, you know, I just have very important things on my mind." It wasn't even a complete lie, though obviously not everyone would agree with him.
"Sorry, coach," Carles says, seemingly unimpressed, "I was just wondering when we're leaving for the airport on Saturday."
Letting out a deep sigh, Pep takes his pen and writes the time and the date down on the big board in the dressing room, trying his best to avoid the sight of a half-naked Lionel Messi passing him on his way to the showers.
***
Lionel wants his coach's approval more than anything else. He wants to do the right thing, to impress him, to be of value in his eyes, and he's horribly afraid of doing something wrong, of making a mistake that Pep wouldn't forgive him for.
He hates himself for daydreaming before training, during training and after training, and he doesn't know how much more of this he can take before going completely insane. It might have been a crush before, simple hero worship, but it's turned into so much more, and sometimes Lionel wonders when it would start influencing his performance on the pitch and Pep would notice.
***
Pep wants nothing more than to be a good coach. He knows that he has what it takes to be good for Barcelona on the long run. He has worked hard to be where he is now. He knows his business, the players, and the board.
And yet, he is painfully aware of the fact that he isn't perfect. While other coaches do their jobs and then return to their loving wives and families, Pep spends his free time dreaming about one of his protégés, a player who is probably the best in the world. Lionel doesn't need his adoration, his desire for him. Sometimes, Pep wonders if Lionel actually needs him as a coach, if he actually has an influence on this outstandingly talented player or if Lionel would shine under any coach in the world.
Pep has lost count of how often he has prayed to the Heavens that Lionel would never start doubting, but he knows his prayers wouldn't help if, just once, Pep failed to control his feelings and gave Lionel a reason to leave.
***
"What's wrong, Lio?" Pep looks concerned as he meets Lionel's gaze across the threshold.
"Come in, coach," Lionel says instead of a reply, stepping back to let the older man into his flat. He's nervous as hell, and all the useful sentences he's prepared for himself, all those sentences that would make everything so easy, have disappeared from his mind.
He tries his best to gain time, runs to the kitchen to get drinks, then to the pantry for some snacks, and then heads to the toilet to take a leak. Finally, there are no more excuses left, and he has to sit down next to Pep and open his mouth.
A part of him wishes he had never called Pep. It would have been a lot easier to just go on as usual, to keep this a secret and hope it would fade eventually, but the weekend's game against Real Sociedad didn't go as it should have, and Lionel fears it's time to come clean, face the music, and make the best of it. He hasn't gone through all the hardships in his life only to let something stop him now.
When he tells Pep, he doesn't use any fancy words. He says what comes to his mind. It doesn't always make sense, but it's not supposed to. He doesn't even let Pep's silence, and the growing frown on his forehead, distract him. He knows that in this world he's not supposed to be proud of what he's saying, but at the same time he figures that if you can't be proud of who you are, of what you feel, of wanting to belong to someone, then what can you be proud of?
Pep doesn't reply immediately, and finally Lionel allows himself to get nervous again. His throat is dry and he moves forward to take a sip from his drink but then decides against it, afraid he'd drop the glass.
Finally, Pep speaks. He doesn't use any fancy words either but says what comes to his mind. He doesn't seem to let the sight of Lionel wanting to be swallowed by the ground distract him. He is being professional about this, just like Lionel expected he would be. And then, once he's told Lionel everything about not wanting to abuse his position, his power, his job, at a point when the winger has already prepared himself for the final rejection, a hesitant smile appears on Pep's face.
"My abuelita," he says, "was always fond of big, heroically delivered speeches. Even when she could hardly speak anymore, having lost most of her teeth and being too proud to buy dentures, she'd give me advice whether I asked for it or not. I remember perfectly what I felt like when I played my first game for Barcelona. I had worked hard to be in the first team, but I was still scared to death, afraid of making a mistake. And she, sensing my discomfort, pulled me towards herself, patted me on the back, and then told me that on the rare occasion of wanting something so much that one can't stop thinking about it, that one would give everything to achieve it, that one can't think of anything more important or more valuable, one should do everything in one's power to achieve it, no matter what anyone says, even when it means fighting against the whole world." Pep chuckles at the memory. "She was wonderful, my abuelita."
Lionel gulps, unsure whether to ruin the moment by saying something. He's not sure what Pep means, but at the same time he knows that his coach didn't say all this for no reason at all.
"And… do you want this?" he finally manages to ask. He needs to know, even at the price of having his coach laugh at him for assuming he could ever want Lionel more than anything else.
Pep sighs and leans back into the sofa. "I honestly wish I didn't," he says finally. "That would make it easier for both of us."
Lionel smiles at that, feeling a wave of immense relief wash over him. "Someone once told me that taking the easy way is not always the most rewarding."
That makes Pep laugh. "That someone is a very wise person."
"So you agree?"
"Yes, I agree."
"Pep?"
"Hm?"
"Will you kiss me?"
***
The loud bang of a garbage can tumbling over outside the window pulls Lionel out of his sleep and he blinks slowly, trying to get accustomed to the bright light in the room. He's at home. In his own bed. With a sigh, he moves to stretch himself when suddenly his hand hits something warm and soft and a very familiar scent fills his nose. All of a sudden, he's wide awake and hardly dares to move. Can this be true? He slowly turns his head, almost afraid that the illusion would fade the moment he looked.
It doesn't. Right next to him, there's Pep, smiling fondly at him. "Good morning, sleepyhead."
Lionel stares at him for a moment, incapable of believing what he sees. He remembers calling Pep, telling him he needed to talk to him about something urgent, remembers Pep coming over, remembers them talking, but at the same time it could all have been a dream, just like all the other incredibly intense dreams he's had about Pep.
But then, the older man pulls him into an embrace, warm and gentle and so perfectly Pep that Lionel feels silly for having doubted this for an instant.
"I'm so glad I didn't dream this," he mumbles into Pep's neck, more to himself than to his new lover, and claims the older man's mouth for a long, deep good morning kiss. After all, they have better things to do than dwelling on how this could be real.
Author: txorakeriak
Fandom: Football RPS / FC Barcelona
Pairing: Josep Guardiola/Lionel Messi
Rating: NC-17
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: Some things aren't meant to be easy.
Dedication: For dfotw. I love you, darling, and I hope you like this, even though it's probably completely unlike what you requested. *hides*
Word Count: 2,744
A/N: I have no clue whether Pep had a grandma who lost almost all her teeth, but to be honest, I doubt it.
Allergy Warning: May contain traces of smut and idealistic heroics. Read at own risk.
Thanks to the awesome jennis_footie for the speedy beta! *hugs*
Feedback: Everything is most welcome, from squee to constructive criticism. I even accept rotten tomatoes, so don't be shy. ;)
*****
He's alone on the pitch, surrounded by nothing but grass and landscape while the others are probably still having lunch. There's a rare silence in the air. No cars, no planes, no chatter; just some birds in the trees and some crickets in the freshly mowed grass. The sun is burning down on him; it's summer, thirty-five degrees, a cloudless sky. He loves summer.
He takes a gulp of water, then tosses the bottle to the ground next to the others. His shirt is sticky from this morning's training, so he takes it off and ties it into the goal net, leaving it to dry. Droplets of sweat run down his back, his sides, his stomach.
As he bends down to get another training shirt from the duffel bag next to the goal, he suddenly feels a strong body pressing up against him, pushing him against the goalpost. Lionel gasps, reaching out for the net to keep his balance. A possessive arm wraps around him and pulls him up, causing him to drop back against the other man's chest. Laboured breath, hot and heavy with arousal, hits Lionel's neck, and he can feel himself grow hard in his boxers. The familiar scent of cologne and something else fills his nose, making his heartbeat quicken instinctively. Through the fabric of their training kits, he feels Pep's growing erection between his butt cheeks. God, how he wants this. How he wants him.
Dazed with lust he pushes back against Pep and starts grinding against him, faster and faster, until Pep growls into his ear, digs a hand into Lionel's shorts and boxers, and curls it around the winger's rock-hard cock. Lionel groans out and bucks his hips, wanting to come so bad, but Pep doesn't let him. He strokes him slowly, languidly, until the winger is reduced to begging, please, please, please.
He spreads his legs without having to be told or encouraged to, and finally, Pep gives in, yanking down Lionel's shorts and pushing a pair of slick fingers into him. Lionel sighs at the touch, spreading his legs further as he is being stretched, and it feels good, so good, but it's not enough. He wants more. Please… take me, take me, please… He's reduced to begging, but he doesn't care, and finally Pep has mercy on him, removes his fingers, and then enters him with one hard thrust, and Lionel almost weeps at the sensation.
His hands get tangled in the goal net as he tries to steady himself, too shaky, too horny, too overwhelmed by Pep's passionate thrusts, the way he pants hoarsely into Lionel's ear, the way his fingers dig into Lionel's hips as if he wants to own him completely and doesn't know that he already does.
"Lio? Hey, dwarf, you listening?"
A rough nudge sends Lionel flying against the back of the net, and only when he looks up and finds Gerard Piqué looming over him does the winger realise that he's just been daydreaming, right in the middle of a training session. Blushing, he picks himself up and tries to be as inconspicuous as possible as he adjusts his clothes, hoping nobody spotted the raging hard-on in his shorts. God, how embarrassing.
Gerard flashes him one of his typical wide grins. "Come on, stop dreaming, we're supposed to hit each other with that ball." He points towards a big blue ball. "Or, well, actually I didn't quite catch what we're supposed to do. Hey, coach!"
"No!" Lionel almost screams at that. "We can ask someone else!" The last thing he wants right now is seeing Pep and being reminded of his fantasy, but the coach is on his way already, and Lionel bites his lip, puts on his most innocent look and tries to disappear behind the goalpost as Pep, patient as always, explains the training exercise for a second time.
***
With a sigh, Pep tosses his notebook and his pen onto the bench, sits down and starts unlacing his shoes, only to stop right in his tracks when he hears a sound from the showers. He didn't expect anyone to still be here, considering that training ended an hour ago and he only just finished his line-up for the upcoming match. His forehead transforms into a light frown as he gets up from the bench and walks over to the shower door to check if everything is all right.
The sight nearly makes him recoil. In the far right corner of the room, Lionel Messi is standing with his legs spread wide, facing the wall as his hand moves in a tell-tale fashion in his lap region. Pep's throat goes dry. He knows he should turn away, pretend nothing happened, try and get the image out of his head, but he can't. He's frozen to the spot, unable to tear his gaze away from the sinfully delicious sight of the world's best player jerking himself off.
When he suddenly reaches behind himself and starts to finger his sensitive hole, Pep breaks out in cold sweat. His briefs are suddenly way too tight, he's harder than he remembers having ever been in his entire life, and he digs his hand into his trackpants, unable to endure the tension any longer. He starts stroking himself, trying to adopt Lionel's rhythm, but it's not enough. He wants him, needs him, needs to be inside him, and he hates himself for it because he's not supposed to feel those things about his best player. Newspapers and pundits may have labelled him superhuman, but that doesn't change anything about the fact that he's just a guy, flawed, imperfect, driven by his feelings and desires.
He takes off his clothes in silence and steps into the shower room, slowly approaching Lionel who looks even more delectable up close, with his wet hair clinging to his neck in wide strands, and the little droplets of water running down his back and disappearing between his pert butt cheeks. The younger man's eyes are closed, his mouth slightly open, and he moans softly as he pleasures himself, sending a jolt of lust straight to Pep's groin. The coach gulps. His cock is painfully hard, and his heart is beating like a train from hell, threatening to explode in his chest.
A few more steps, and he is as close to Lionel as he can be without touching him, but the younger man still doesn't seem to have picked up on his presence, and Pep can't wait any longer.
"Let me give you a hand," he says hoarsely, because it's the first thing that comes to his mind.
Lionel spins around, eyes like saucers, probably expecting to be told off and punished, and Pep takes advantage of the young man's momentary paralysis to grab him, push him against the wall and press his mouth to Lionel's in a fiery, passionate kiss.
The winger doesn't take long to recover from his initial shock. Only a few seconds later, he wraps his arms around Pep and kisses him back, and when Pep instinctively lifts him up, Lionel's legs immediately curl around the older man's waist.
"Please, coach," Lionel gasps into Pep's mouth as he pulls back to fill his lungs with air, "please, fuck me, please…"
The words make Pep's heart swell with joy and pride and his cock twitch in anticipation, and he decides to waste no more time. He pulls Lionel up slightly, grabs his own cock and positions it against the younger man's waiting entrance.
"Fuck, yes, do it," Lionel coaxes, looking at him through half-closed eyes and licking his lips, "give it to me… I need it, I want it… give me your cock…"
And Pep, completely overwhelmed by the animalistic lust running through his veins, complies and pushes in, groaning out at the tight, tight heat around his cock that almost drives him over the edge right then and there.
"Fuck, yes, coach… Oh coach… coach… Coach! Coach!"
A sharp tug against his shirt pulls Pep back into reality, and he finds himself staring like an idiot into the face of Carles Puyol while his own quickly turns crimson.
He clears his throat, wondering how to save this horribly awkward situation, then opts for briskness. "What is it?" he says curtly, trying to conceal the hoarseness in his voice. "I'm not deaf, you know, I just have very important things on my mind." It wasn't even a complete lie, though obviously not everyone would agree with him.
"Sorry, coach," Carles says, seemingly unimpressed, "I was just wondering when we're leaving for the airport on Saturday."
Letting out a deep sigh, Pep takes his pen and writes the time and the date down on the big board in the dressing room, trying his best to avoid the sight of a half-naked Lionel Messi passing him on his way to the showers.
***
Lionel wants his coach's approval more than anything else. He wants to do the right thing, to impress him, to be of value in his eyes, and he's horribly afraid of doing something wrong, of making a mistake that Pep wouldn't forgive him for.
He hates himself for daydreaming before training, during training and after training, and he doesn't know how much more of this he can take before going completely insane. It might have been a crush before, simple hero worship, but it's turned into so much more, and sometimes Lionel wonders when it would start influencing his performance on the pitch and Pep would notice.
***
Pep wants nothing more than to be a good coach. He knows that he has what it takes to be good for Barcelona on the long run. He has worked hard to be where he is now. He knows his business, the players, and the board.
And yet, he is painfully aware of the fact that he isn't perfect. While other coaches do their jobs and then return to their loving wives and families, Pep spends his free time dreaming about one of his protégés, a player who is probably the best in the world. Lionel doesn't need his adoration, his desire for him. Sometimes, Pep wonders if Lionel actually needs him as a coach, if he actually has an influence on this outstandingly talented player or if Lionel would shine under any coach in the world.
Pep has lost count of how often he has prayed to the Heavens that Lionel would never start doubting, but he knows his prayers wouldn't help if, just once, Pep failed to control his feelings and gave Lionel a reason to leave.
***
"What's wrong, Lio?" Pep looks concerned as he meets Lionel's gaze across the threshold.
"Come in, coach," Lionel says instead of a reply, stepping back to let the older man into his flat. He's nervous as hell, and all the useful sentences he's prepared for himself, all those sentences that would make everything so easy, have disappeared from his mind.
He tries his best to gain time, runs to the kitchen to get drinks, then to the pantry for some snacks, and then heads to the toilet to take a leak. Finally, there are no more excuses left, and he has to sit down next to Pep and open his mouth.
A part of him wishes he had never called Pep. It would have been a lot easier to just go on as usual, to keep this a secret and hope it would fade eventually, but the weekend's game against Real Sociedad didn't go as it should have, and Lionel fears it's time to come clean, face the music, and make the best of it. He hasn't gone through all the hardships in his life only to let something stop him now.
When he tells Pep, he doesn't use any fancy words. He says what comes to his mind. It doesn't always make sense, but it's not supposed to. He doesn't even let Pep's silence, and the growing frown on his forehead, distract him. He knows that in this world he's not supposed to be proud of what he's saying, but at the same time he figures that if you can't be proud of who you are, of what you feel, of wanting to belong to someone, then what can you be proud of?
Pep doesn't reply immediately, and finally Lionel allows himself to get nervous again. His throat is dry and he moves forward to take a sip from his drink but then decides against it, afraid he'd drop the glass.
Finally, Pep speaks. He doesn't use any fancy words either but says what comes to his mind. He doesn't seem to let the sight of Lionel wanting to be swallowed by the ground distract him. He is being professional about this, just like Lionel expected he would be. And then, once he's told Lionel everything about not wanting to abuse his position, his power, his job, at a point when the winger has already prepared himself for the final rejection, a hesitant smile appears on Pep's face.
"My abuelita," he says, "was always fond of big, heroically delivered speeches. Even when she could hardly speak anymore, having lost most of her teeth and being too proud to buy dentures, she'd give me advice whether I asked for it or not. I remember perfectly what I felt like when I played my first game for Barcelona. I had worked hard to be in the first team, but I was still scared to death, afraid of making a mistake. And she, sensing my discomfort, pulled me towards herself, patted me on the back, and then told me that on the rare occasion of wanting something so much that one can't stop thinking about it, that one would give everything to achieve it, that one can't think of anything more important or more valuable, one should do everything in one's power to achieve it, no matter what anyone says, even when it means fighting against the whole world." Pep chuckles at the memory. "She was wonderful, my abuelita."
Lionel gulps, unsure whether to ruin the moment by saying something. He's not sure what Pep means, but at the same time he knows that his coach didn't say all this for no reason at all.
"And… do you want this?" he finally manages to ask. He needs to know, even at the price of having his coach laugh at him for assuming he could ever want Lionel more than anything else.
Pep sighs and leans back into the sofa. "I honestly wish I didn't," he says finally. "That would make it easier for both of us."
Lionel smiles at that, feeling a wave of immense relief wash over him. "Someone once told me that taking the easy way is not always the most rewarding."
That makes Pep laugh. "That someone is a very wise person."
"So you agree?"
"Yes, I agree."
"Pep?"
"Hm?"
"Will you kiss me?"
***
The loud bang of a garbage can tumbling over outside the window pulls Lionel out of his sleep and he blinks slowly, trying to get accustomed to the bright light in the room. He's at home. In his own bed. With a sigh, he moves to stretch himself when suddenly his hand hits something warm and soft and a very familiar scent fills his nose. All of a sudden, he's wide awake and hardly dares to move. Can this be true? He slowly turns his head, almost afraid that the illusion would fade the moment he looked.
It doesn't. Right next to him, there's Pep, smiling fondly at him. "Good morning, sleepyhead."
Lionel stares at him for a moment, incapable of believing what he sees. He remembers calling Pep, telling him he needed to talk to him about something urgent, remembers Pep coming over, remembers them talking, but at the same time it could all have been a dream, just like all the other incredibly intense dreams he's had about Pep.
But then, the older man pulls him into an embrace, warm and gentle and so perfectly Pep that Lionel feels silly for having doubted this for an instant.
"I'm so glad I didn't dream this," he mumbles into Pep's neck, more to himself than to his new lover, and claims the older man's mouth for a long, deep good morning kiss. After all, they have better things to do than dwelling on how this could be real.