nam mellitus erat, .002 middles.
Title: Nam Mellitus Erat
Author: tyrannicides
Pairing: Iker Casillas/Cesc Fabregas, Sergio Ramos/Fernando Torres, appearances from others.
Rating: NC-17 for language, sex.
Disclaimer: Don't own, made up.
Summary: Iker is a stick-in-the-mud RA who is in his senior year and Cesc is a seventeen-year-old freshman who rooms with him.
Author's Notes: I apologize in advance for college fic. I changed Stevie to Frank because now I actually know who people in football are.
Cesc shows up at his door with a box in his arms and a duffel bag on his shoulder three nights later. He knocked even though he already has a key, which Iker supposes was considerate enough. Iker steps to the side to let him in, and Cesc enters the room like he did the first time. Like it's not his now too.
He caught Iker during dinner. He's holding the plate of frozen dinner lasagna in one hand and points with his fork in the other.
"The bathroom's in there. I shower early in the morning, so." Iker hasn't had to do one of these roommate contract things since freshman year.
Cesc nods, which Iker hopes means he understands.
"Uh, that bed's yours." Newly cleaned off, the books that were piled on it back on Iker's shelf. "That's about it, I guess."
"Okay," Cesc says. He starts unpacking. Iker goes back to his homework.
After about an hour or so, Iker looks up. Watches Cesc stick up a single, ratty poster on his side of the room: Robin van Persie. "Do you play?" he asks.
"Football?" Cesc asks, pressing his thumbs into the sticky tack.
"Yeah."
"I used to. At home." Cesc hops off his bed and starts rustling through his box of stuff. A stack of psychology books comes out, one with the cover mostly ripped off. He sets a beat-up lime green Gameboy on his desk. There isn't a laptop in his things, or a cell phone. The only thing left in the box is a heap of sports magazines. All of them have football covers.
"Maybe you should try out for the team," Iker says, casual.
Cesc hums and then goes silent, and Iker figures the conversation is over. He goes back to highlighting verbs he needs to look up with a dying yellow pen that he really needs to replace and then a few minutes later, Cesc says, "Maybe I will," like he's been mulling it over the whole time.
"Think about it," Iker replies.
Cesc isn't a bad roommate. He mumbles in his sleep and forgets to press "Cancel" on the microwave when he takes food out early, but he's generally pretty neat and he showers at night. He sleeps in a ball, and doesn't use his pillow. In reality, Iker doesn't see much of him. Cesc leaves at around 8 in the morning and tends to get in after 9. At first Iker suspects that he's skipping class and messing around, but then he wanders in one night with an apron still tied around his waist-Phillips, the school cafeteria-and Iker feels a bit of sympathy. That's a shit job. He knows from experience. Cesc plops into bed that night without doing any homework, and without taking his shoes off.
He's hot and cold. Sometimes he opens up and talks about class or professors or home, then he catches himself and trails off. Iker doesn't hold it against him. He doesn't mind a quiet roommate, or how Cesc seems to be the type who takes a while to warm up to somebody. It isn't a big deal. They get along well enough.
Then, two weeks after Cesc moves in, Iker is separating his lights and darks and Cesc bounds into the room after frantically jiggling the key in the door for a few minutes and he's yelling "I made the team!", and then Iker's arms are full and Cesc's fingers are bunched tight in the back of his shirt. His face tucked in Iker's neck and he smells like clipped grass. Something feels like it's changed. Iker says "Congratulations," he thinks, but it's hard to remember.
"You seem cheery."
Iker looks up from where he's reading Dr. Beckham's tiny notes on his draft. The window's open and it's starting to smell like fall outside. Leaves and dirt and cool air.
"I said you seem cheery." 'Cheery' is a Dr. Beckham word. "Pay raise? New car?"
"Oh," Iker says. He pauses chewing on his pen and then says "No," word garbled by the cap. He looks back down at the paper.
"Right."
"So by 'more epistemological research', do you mean-"
"You know it's not a sin to go out and have a good time, Iker. Take your new friend out to dinner sometime."
Iker looks up. Though he doesn't say anything, it's clear he's surprised.
Dr. Beckham looks smug. Iker realizes he's been duped.
It seems easier to give in than explain. "Maybe," he says finally.
"And really, Iker, you should stop wearing that sweater with that shirt."
"Yeah?" Iker looks down at his outfit. He'd thought this was a good one.
"Yeah. A tan cardigan, maybe," Dr. Beckham says thoughtfully. "...And ditch the belt."
Iker's hanging in the doorway, patting his pockets and checking that he has everything. He's going to check out a new gelato place on Main Street with Sergio. A month ago he would have put ten bucks on there being a new girl on his arm. Now, he's not so sure.
"Hey, guess what?" Cesc is on the shared floor phone in the hallway, trying not to sound excited.
Iker pauses.
"...No, the school would have sent you a letter. This is a good thing. ...No. ...No. Mom, I made the team. The football team."
Iker peeks his head around the corner and watches him grin. Then Cesc's mouth goes soft. His eyes turn down. He picks at splinters in the counter, listening.
"No, I know. I'm working extra to pay for them. Yeah, they said I could. There was an empty timeslot between Biology and English. ...It's not too many hours, Dr. Wenger said they could make an exception. ...No, I'm still sending that home. I'm sending home all of it except, like, some for cleats."
Later, Sergio points at Iker with his spoon, tells him he's never going to get laid if he keeps walking around with his face stuck like that all the time. Iker tells him the gelato doesn't taste as good as he thought it would.
It's a Friday night and Iker blows off work to go to Cesc's first game. He feels out of place in the stands, small in the shadow of the floodlights, but he doesn't really regret it either. He buys a hot chocolate and learns their school's fight song for the first time in the (almost) four years he's been there, and he feels his heart speed up every time the ball gets close to the posts. Cesc doesn't start. Cesc doesn't even play. But when they win, Iker sees him jumping off the bench and barreling down his teammates, dragging them into hugs like they've just won the World Cup.
Iker doesn't mind when he comes in late and maybe drunk, sneaking around and cussing quietly when he knocks things over in the dark.
Cesc confuses him. He's quiet and distant, except when he's with friends, then his smiles and his hugs are easy. Then he's a chatterbox. The way he looks at things makes it seem like he knows what's going on all the time, like he has some kind of old soul wisdom that doesn't belong in a teenage body, but then he forgets his books, or forgets he even has class at all. He's more mature than he should be, but not as mature as he thinks he is. Sometimes he bites his tongue for a second while he's laughing. Iker's never seen someone actually do that before.
He starts blocking off Fridays in his planner. He doesn't write anything there, but there's a box in black pen from 6-9. He never fills it.
Sergio goes with him to one of Cesc's games. He brings a noisemaker and claps and sings and Iker doesn't feel as stupid doing it too-but less loudly-when Sergio has an arm thrown around him. Iker's pretty sure Sergio has only a rudimentary idea of how the rules work, but he cheers when he's supposed to and groans when he's supposed to, and he's genuinely disappointed when they lose 3-0. Not as disappointed as Cesc, though. Iker watches him wander off the pitch like a lost kid. He sees him press the back of his wrist to his eye for just a second when he hits the sideline, and Iker's stricken, in that moment, that Cesc feels the loss that hard. And that somehow, Iker might feel it harder.
He makes Cesc waffles the next morning before he goes for his run. He doesn't put syrup on them (they'd get soggy) and he doesn't leave a note, but Cesc's face seems a bit brighter that afternoon than it had the night before. Iker hears him humming in the shower. So.
The heat ratchets up again for one more week, the last rush of summer before fall settles in. Iker's sweating in the stands. He can't imagine how it feels to be running around. The final whistle blows and Cesc pulls his jersey over his head, tugs harder when the collar gets stuck on his ears. He fights with a teammate over a water bottle from the ice chest, laughing, then pours some in his hair and shakes his head like a dog.
Iker's seen him without a shirt before, to and from the shower or brushing his teeth in the morning. But in the sun and on the grass-it's like it's the first time. Cesc isn't ripped, he's barely toned, really, but the muscles in his back bunch when he stretches and his stomach, tight and lean, the slightest 'v' dipping in his hips-
Iker jolts when someone spills beer on his jeans. Like they shouted at him. Saw and understood. Knew what he was doing.
It's a Sunday afternoon and Iker is reading his History homework. Cesc is playing his Gameboy.
"I didn't know you come to my games," he says.
Iker hums something that's supposed to ask Cesc to say that again. He's knee-deep in an article on Greek particles and once he finally gets himself into this kind of thing, it's hard to dig himself out.
"I didn't know you come to my games," Cesc repeats. He leans his head back to look at Iker upside down. "Pique said he saw you there. I didn't know you went."
Iker considers several different reasons to give Cesc for why he goes to his games. In the end, he says, "Yeah, I do."
Cesc grins and goes back to Megaman. Iker thinks it's the first genuine Cesc smile he's ever gotten aimed at him. It's disarming, the way his stomach drops out.
It's sunset with stars coming out and Iker finds Sergio smoking on the stairs in front of the Education building, watching the fountain splash outside the basin. It always smells like algae around the Education building.
"Hey," Iker says, nudging Sergio's bag out of the way with his foot and sitting down next to him. It's the 'hey' that means 'hey' and 'how are you' and 'what's wrong'.
Sergio exhales smoke in a smooth stream and drops his head, like for that second, it was too much effort to keep it up.
"Fernando," he says, waving his hand in way of explanation.
Iker plucks the cigarette and takes a drag. He hands it back to Sergio. "You really like him."
It's more statement than question. Sergio sucks twice on what's left of the cigarette, burns it down to the filter, then grinds it out on the pavement.
"Yeah."
Iker sympathizes.
A girl presses up on Iker at a party, pulling his hand under her shirt and cupping it against her bra. She smells like lilies and hair product.
"Take me somewhere," she says in his ear.
Iker feels her kissing his neck, then nudges her off. He doesn't take her anywhere.
"Hey, should I take Intro to Latin?" Cesc is sprawled out on his bed in the corner, and Iker is sitting on his own. There's a weird familiarity to it.
Iker dogears his page. He'll be lucky if he can sell back any of his books this semester. "Who's teaching it?"
"I dunno, is it a good class."
Iker refrains from the knee-jerk RA you should research your professors rant. "Well. Yeah. I liked it," he says.
"Why?"
Usually people stop after hearing 'It's a good class'. Iker hasn't had to dig up this explanation since high-school. "Well, learning about Greece or Rome. They're, like, the basis for our culture. Western culture in general. It's important."
"Who cares?" Cesc presses.
"Understanding our culture is important." He talks to Cesc like he's stupid because he's acting stupid.
"What does that even mean. Why do you study it?"
Iker fucking hates people looking for this practical bullshit. "Look, just learning the languages themselves is really helpful. Your English grammar gets way stronger and vocab sections on standardized tests are easy."
"Bullshit," Cesc says. He looks at Iker over Iker's laptop (borrowed) and sees how pissed off he is and repeats, "Bullshit," the syllables distinct, like they're separated by a period. "Nobody does hours of that shit to do well on the GRE." He gestures to Iker's shelf-Horace, Sappho, Tibullus. "Nobody."
"Are you serious. People do it all the ti-"
"Not you."
With some detachment, Iker feels himself reach the breaking point. Then he feels himself pass it.
"Because Virgil is the greatest poet. Ever. Because Ovid understands love," he gestures wildly with his hands, "better than anything I've ever seen in a movie or a show or whatever. Because the first time I read the Iliad, I knew there was nothing else like it. Because it's moving, and it's real, andi convinces me that people are always the same. That we're all always the same and we're never alone. That's why."
The way Cesc looks at him, suddenly completely lacking aggression, smiling, Iker feels like he just got Punk'd. He goes back to his reading, feeling irrationally worked up and confused.
Cesc doesn't end up signing up for Intro to Latin. He takes a seminar in Bioethics. But Iker starts finding his Georgics, his Antigone, his Heroides in different parts of the room-on the side of Cesc's bed, in the window where he likes to sit. There are new dogears in the corners of the pages.
"Yeah, but how can Augustan influence not be read into it? How is that even possible?"
"...I haven't seen you get this fired up over lyric poetry since freshman year."
Iker pauses. He isn't sure what to say.
Dr. Beckham is smiling.
"Go on."
The first time Cesc scores a goal, it's like a movie. It's the final ten minutes and the game's been tied for forty, and when he dodges around two defenders and slams it in, Iker doesn't even remember standing up. Only realizing that he's still standing up five minutes later, and still cheering. Sergio blows his noisemaker until he's out of breath.
When Iker opens the door an hour later, he expects Sergio and a bag of late night tacos and beer. What he gets is Cesc's wet hair and his big eyes, his clammy palms when he cups Iker's face and pulls him down, awkward, for a kiss. Iker bites his bottom lip and tugs without even thinking then moves to turn his face away because fuck but Cesc follows and kisses at the side of his mouth, again and again, wherever he can reach. He's showered and damp and suited up in a clean jersey for an afterparty he skipped just for this, just to grope at Iker with clumsy hands and to lick the corner of his lips in the middle of the hallway-and he's so fucking eager and tight everywhere and the way he looked on the pitch and fuck it, fuck it-
Iker fists his hands in his shirt and hauls him inside. Cesc stumbles but he follows easy, no resistance-Iker slams the door and now they're both panting in the dark and it's oddly quiet, like the moment after the roller coaster stops clicking up the hill and just before it tilts over. Iker reaches out to touch his hip right when Cesc fumbles for his hand and pulls it up his shirt and Iker lunges forward, gropes up his body like a blind man, shoves Cesc back against the door hard enough to make the latch rattle in the wall. It occurs to him, absently, that he's never pushed someone like this. Not even in high-school, when it was normal to do that kind of thing. Nothing about this feels normal.
Cesc kisses like he needs it to live and he's eager with his tongue, eager to get in Iker's mouth. When Iker pulls Cesc's shorts down and drops to his knees, he feels Cesc fumble out the frame and the doorhandle to brace himself. Iker touches him then licks and swallows him down-he holds him up when Cesc's knees go weak, Cesc's hips tight in his hands. Iker expects him to cuss, but he doesn't. He breathes and gulps and makes small little pained noises in the back of his throat, sounds desperate and keening and turned on and completely overwhelmed, all at once. It shouldn't be as hot as it is.
Iker bobs. He reaches up for Cesc's hand and puts it in his hair, and Cesc tugs hard enough to hurt. His leg moves against Iker's chest and Iker lets him pull it up, rest his knee on his shoulder. The movement opens Cesc up more, lets Iker duck down and open his mouth over him, pressing his tongue on the spot behind his sack.
Cesc trembles all over. Makes a sound like he's been punched in the gut.
"It's alright," Iker says, running a calming hand up his shirt. He swallows him down. He waits until Cesc catches his breath and then he reaches back, presses again, and Cesc jerks like a puppet on strings. He comes in his mouth. Iker's barely on his feet before Cesc is on him.
"Hold on," Iker mumbles, trying to swallow as much of the taste out of his mouth as he can for him, but Cesc doesn't care. He leans up, grappling, kissing so hard their teeth are clacking. He's half falling into Iker, tripping with his shorts around his ankles, kicking off his shoes as they back up to the closest bed. Iker's bed.
Once they get there, things become clearer-Cesc's not a virgin, but he isn't completely sure what he's doing either. He idles between Iker's legs when Iker sits, looking a little unsure of himself. His hair is sticking up on the side.
"Whatever you want," Iker says, sincere.
Cesc smiles a little (familiar now, when did it get this way) and he carefully straddles his lap, naked except for a jersey and his socks (one sock is sliding down his calf. Without thinking, Iker fixes it). He holds on to Iker's shoulder, looks back, pragmatic-takes a moment to get his balance. Then he's grinding down on Iker's dick, rubbing himself over his jeans.
Whatever Iker was expecting, it wasn't expecting that. He surges up, grabs Cesc's shirt when Cesc starts a rhythm, rolling and steady and heavy. He thinks he could probably come like this. And then it suddenly occurs to him that Cesc is tired. That he was running for an hour and a half and practicing three hours a day for a month before that. His thighs are trembling under Iker's palms.
Iker runs a hand up his side to slow him down. He cups the side of his head and opens his mouth on the side of his neck. It actually hurts something in his chest, to feel how weak Cesc goes for that.
"Slow down," he says. Cesc doesn't listen. Iker presses down on his thighs. He wraps an arm around Cesc and pulls him close. "Slow down."
Cesc listens. He relaxes like his muscles are slowly coming untied and presses his eyes into Iker's shoulder and suddenly Iker feels like he has a huge responsibility, this incredibly huge responsibility that he hadn't even been aware of until this exact moment. He's still holding Cesc in a half-hug when he frames his hip in his hand, then he gently rolls up against him, against the heat between his legs.
It's the same pace he'd give him if they were fucking, slow and deep and rhythmic, and Cesc seems aware of it. He wraps his arms around Iker's neck like it's really happening-and maybe he's pretending it is-lets out a long shuddering breath in his shirt. Iker thrusts and thrusts, harder and quicker each time-then he bites the slope where Cesc's neck meets his shoulder. He's never felt that way before, like he wanted to mark something to make it his. But with Cesc-it isn't even so much ownership as-protection, maybe. That if this belongs to him, maybe he's allowed to look after it. It's all half-formed in his brain but the way Cesc goes limp in his arms when he feels his teeth, like an animal-
"Hold on. I'm close," Iker says.
Cesc pulls back. At first he seems kind of embarrassed. It makes Iker worried. Then he meets Iker's eyes and smiles, nervous, kind of hesitant. He takes Iker's dick out and holds it in his hand-his grip is cold. Iker watches him pull his jersey up past his nipples. He holds it there.
"You like this, right?" Cesc's voice is quiet in the dark. His tone is somewhere between trying to be confident and being absolutely confident and being embarrassed that he knows he can be confident. "You're into this?" He checks Iker's expression. There's no way he can miss the way his mouth opens, the way his grip tightens. Iker thinks of the time in the sun, wonders how Cesc knows-
He tries to find something to say. His mouth moves twice before he manages.
"...Yeah." He rubs the ridge of Cesc's hip with his thumb, careful, and slides the head of his dick down along his stomach. He leans down to kiss a nipple. He can feel the muscles in Cesc's belly flutter when his precome smears on his skin, sticky and cool-he presses over a little bit of soft left over, where Cesc's muscles haven't tightened underneath from running and pull-ups and crunches yet. He watches himself do it. He can feel Cesc watching his face, then he looks down and watches Iker do it too. There's the quiet wet noise of his lips parting and after a moment, Cesc reaches down to grope himself. Like he can't help it.
"Fuck," Iker mumbles. He feels heat rise in his cheeks, and he comes. Some of it dribbles in Cesc's bellybutton.
After a moment, Iker catches the come up in his palm and rolls off the bed to clean up. When he gets back and lays down, it's easy to let Cesc cover him with his body, kiss him until he puts himself to sleep.
"You could have been out drinking," Iker says to the ceiling the next morning. Cesc is lying by his side. Their elbows are bumping. "You could have gotten laid in all the sorority houses. Twice," Iker continues.
"That's true," Cesc says. He's laughing, kind of, and he rolls over to hug Iker before he gets up and stumbles out of bed. Iker watches him fish for his shorts. He doesn't think he's ever been hugged the morning after before.
It's nice.
039. trainer.
Author: tyrannicides
Pairing: Iker Casillas/Cesc Fabregas, Sergio Ramos/Fernando Torres, appearances from others.
Rating: NC-17 for language, sex.
Disclaimer: Don't own, made up.
Summary: Iker is a stick-in-the-mud RA who is in his senior year and Cesc is a seventeen-year-old freshman who rooms with him.
Author's Notes: I apologize in advance for college fic. I changed Stevie to Frank because now I actually know who people in football are.
Cesc shows up at his door with a box in his arms and a duffel bag on his shoulder three nights later. He knocked even though he already has a key, which Iker supposes was considerate enough. Iker steps to the side to let him in, and Cesc enters the room like he did the first time. Like it's not his now too.
He caught Iker during dinner. He's holding the plate of frozen dinner lasagna in one hand and points with his fork in the other.
"The bathroom's in there. I shower early in the morning, so." Iker hasn't had to do one of these roommate contract things since freshman year.
Cesc nods, which Iker hopes means he understands.
"Uh, that bed's yours." Newly cleaned off, the books that were piled on it back on Iker's shelf. "That's about it, I guess."
"Okay," Cesc says. He starts unpacking. Iker goes back to his homework.
After about an hour or so, Iker looks up. Watches Cesc stick up a single, ratty poster on his side of the room: Robin van Persie. "Do you play?" he asks.
"Football?" Cesc asks, pressing his thumbs into the sticky tack.
"Yeah."
"I used to. At home." Cesc hops off his bed and starts rustling through his box of stuff. A stack of psychology books comes out, one with the cover mostly ripped off. He sets a beat-up lime green Gameboy on his desk. There isn't a laptop in his things, or a cell phone. The only thing left in the box is a heap of sports magazines. All of them have football covers.
"Maybe you should try out for the team," Iker says, casual.
Cesc hums and then goes silent, and Iker figures the conversation is over. He goes back to highlighting verbs he needs to look up with a dying yellow pen that he really needs to replace and then a few minutes later, Cesc says, "Maybe I will," like he's been mulling it over the whole time.
"Think about it," Iker replies.
Cesc isn't a bad roommate. He mumbles in his sleep and forgets to press "Cancel" on the microwave when he takes food out early, but he's generally pretty neat and he showers at night. He sleeps in a ball, and doesn't use his pillow. In reality, Iker doesn't see much of him. Cesc leaves at around 8 in the morning and tends to get in after 9. At first Iker suspects that he's skipping class and messing around, but then he wanders in one night with an apron still tied around his waist-Phillips, the school cafeteria-and Iker feels a bit of sympathy. That's a shit job. He knows from experience. Cesc plops into bed that night without doing any homework, and without taking his shoes off.
He's hot and cold. Sometimes he opens up and talks about class or professors or home, then he catches himself and trails off. Iker doesn't hold it against him. He doesn't mind a quiet roommate, or how Cesc seems to be the type who takes a while to warm up to somebody. It isn't a big deal. They get along well enough.
Then, two weeks after Cesc moves in, Iker is separating his lights and darks and Cesc bounds into the room after frantically jiggling the key in the door for a few minutes and he's yelling "I made the team!", and then Iker's arms are full and Cesc's fingers are bunched tight in the back of his shirt. His face tucked in Iker's neck and he smells like clipped grass. Something feels like it's changed. Iker says "Congratulations," he thinks, but it's hard to remember.
"You seem cheery."
Iker looks up from where he's reading Dr. Beckham's tiny notes on his draft. The window's open and it's starting to smell like fall outside. Leaves and dirt and cool air.
"I said you seem cheery." 'Cheery' is a Dr. Beckham word. "Pay raise? New car?"
"Oh," Iker says. He pauses chewing on his pen and then says "No," word garbled by the cap. He looks back down at the paper.
"Right."
"So by 'more epistemological research', do you mean-"
"You know it's not a sin to go out and have a good time, Iker. Take your new friend out to dinner sometime."
Iker looks up. Though he doesn't say anything, it's clear he's surprised.
Dr. Beckham looks smug. Iker realizes he's been duped.
It seems easier to give in than explain. "Maybe," he says finally.
"And really, Iker, you should stop wearing that sweater with that shirt."
"Yeah?" Iker looks down at his outfit. He'd thought this was a good one.
"Yeah. A tan cardigan, maybe," Dr. Beckham says thoughtfully. "...And ditch the belt."
Iker's hanging in the doorway, patting his pockets and checking that he has everything. He's going to check out a new gelato place on Main Street with Sergio. A month ago he would have put ten bucks on there being a new girl on his arm. Now, he's not so sure.
"Hey, guess what?" Cesc is on the shared floor phone in the hallway, trying not to sound excited.
Iker pauses.
"...No, the school would have sent you a letter. This is a good thing. ...No. ...No. Mom, I made the team. The football team."
Iker peeks his head around the corner and watches him grin. Then Cesc's mouth goes soft. His eyes turn down. He picks at splinters in the counter, listening.
"No, I know. I'm working extra to pay for them. Yeah, they said I could. There was an empty timeslot between Biology and English. ...It's not too many hours, Dr. Wenger said they could make an exception. ...No, I'm still sending that home. I'm sending home all of it except, like, some for cleats."
Later, Sergio points at Iker with his spoon, tells him he's never going to get laid if he keeps walking around with his face stuck like that all the time. Iker tells him the gelato doesn't taste as good as he thought it would.
It's a Friday night and Iker blows off work to go to Cesc's first game. He feels out of place in the stands, small in the shadow of the floodlights, but he doesn't really regret it either. He buys a hot chocolate and learns their school's fight song for the first time in the (almost) four years he's been there, and he feels his heart speed up every time the ball gets close to the posts. Cesc doesn't start. Cesc doesn't even play. But when they win, Iker sees him jumping off the bench and barreling down his teammates, dragging them into hugs like they've just won the World Cup.
Iker doesn't mind when he comes in late and maybe drunk, sneaking around and cussing quietly when he knocks things over in the dark.
Cesc confuses him. He's quiet and distant, except when he's with friends, then his smiles and his hugs are easy. Then he's a chatterbox. The way he looks at things makes it seem like he knows what's going on all the time, like he has some kind of old soul wisdom that doesn't belong in a teenage body, but then he forgets his books, or forgets he even has class at all. He's more mature than he should be, but not as mature as he thinks he is. Sometimes he bites his tongue for a second while he's laughing. Iker's never seen someone actually do that before.
He starts blocking off Fridays in his planner. He doesn't write anything there, but there's a box in black pen from 6-9. He never fills it.
Sergio goes with him to one of Cesc's games. He brings a noisemaker and claps and sings and Iker doesn't feel as stupid doing it too-but less loudly-when Sergio has an arm thrown around him. Iker's pretty sure Sergio has only a rudimentary idea of how the rules work, but he cheers when he's supposed to and groans when he's supposed to, and he's genuinely disappointed when they lose 3-0. Not as disappointed as Cesc, though. Iker watches him wander off the pitch like a lost kid. He sees him press the back of his wrist to his eye for just a second when he hits the sideline, and Iker's stricken, in that moment, that Cesc feels the loss that hard. And that somehow, Iker might feel it harder.
He makes Cesc waffles the next morning before he goes for his run. He doesn't put syrup on them (they'd get soggy) and he doesn't leave a note, but Cesc's face seems a bit brighter that afternoon than it had the night before. Iker hears him humming in the shower. So.
The heat ratchets up again for one more week, the last rush of summer before fall settles in. Iker's sweating in the stands. He can't imagine how it feels to be running around. The final whistle blows and Cesc pulls his jersey over his head, tugs harder when the collar gets stuck on his ears. He fights with a teammate over a water bottle from the ice chest, laughing, then pours some in his hair and shakes his head like a dog.
Iker's seen him without a shirt before, to and from the shower or brushing his teeth in the morning. But in the sun and on the grass-it's like it's the first time. Cesc isn't ripped, he's barely toned, really, but the muscles in his back bunch when he stretches and his stomach, tight and lean, the slightest 'v' dipping in his hips-
Iker jolts when someone spills beer on his jeans. Like they shouted at him. Saw and understood. Knew what he was doing.
It's a Sunday afternoon and Iker is reading his History homework. Cesc is playing his Gameboy.
"I didn't know you come to my games," he says.
Iker hums something that's supposed to ask Cesc to say that again. He's knee-deep in an article on Greek particles and once he finally gets himself into this kind of thing, it's hard to dig himself out.
"I didn't know you come to my games," Cesc repeats. He leans his head back to look at Iker upside down. "Pique said he saw you there. I didn't know you went."
Iker considers several different reasons to give Cesc for why he goes to his games. In the end, he says, "Yeah, I do."
Cesc grins and goes back to Megaman. Iker thinks it's the first genuine Cesc smile he's ever gotten aimed at him. It's disarming, the way his stomach drops out.
It's sunset with stars coming out and Iker finds Sergio smoking on the stairs in front of the Education building, watching the fountain splash outside the basin. It always smells like algae around the Education building.
"Hey," Iker says, nudging Sergio's bag out of the way with his foot and sitting down next to him. It's the 'hey' that means 'hey' and 'how are you' and 'what's wrong'.
Sergio exhales smoke in a smooth stream and drops his head, like for that second, it was too much effort to keep it up.
"Fernando," he says, waving his hand in way of explanation.
Iker plucks the cigarette and takes a drag. He hands it back to Sergio. "You really like him."
It's more statement than question. Sergio sucks twice on what's left of the cigarette, burns it down to the filter, then grinds it out on the pavement.
"Yeah."
Iker sympathizes.
A girl presses up on Iker at a party, pulling his hand under her shirt and cupping it against her bra. She smells like lilies and hair product.
"Take me somewhere," she says in his ear.
Iker feels her kissing his neck, then nudges her off. He doesn't take her anywhere.
"Hey, should I take Intro to Latin?" Cesc is sprawled out on his bed in the corner, and Iker is sitting on his own. There's a weird familiarity to it.
Iker dogears his page. He'll be lucky if he can sell back any of his books this semester. "Who's teaching it?"
"I dunno, is it a good class."
Iker refrains from the knee-jerk RA you should research your professors rant. "Well. Yeah. I liked it," he says.
"Why?"
Usually people stop after hearing 'It's a good class'. Iker hasn't had to dig up this explanation since high-school. "Well, learning about Greece or Rome. They're, like, the basis for our culture. Western culture in general. It's important."
"Who cares?" Cesc presses.
"Understanding our culture is important." He talks to Cesc like he's stupid because he's acting stupid.
"What does that even mean. Why do you study it?"
Iker fucking hates people looking for this practical bullshit. "Look, just learning the languages themselves is really helpful. Your English grammar gets way stronger and vocab sections on standardized tests are easy."
"Bullshit," Cesc says. He looks at Iker over Iker's laptop (borrowed) and sees how pissed off he is and repeats, "Bullshit," the syllables distinct, like they're separated by a period. "Nobody does hours of that shit to do well on the GRE." He gestures to Iker's shelf-Horace, Sappho, Tibullus. "Nobody."
"Are you serious. People do it all the ti-"
"Not you."
With some detachment, Iker feels himself reach the breaking point. Then he feels himself pass it.
"Because Virgil is the greatest poet. Ever. Because Ovid understands love," he gestures wildly with his hands, "better than anything I've ever seen in a movie or a show or whatever. Because the first time I read the Iliad, I knew there was nothing else like it. Because it's moving, and it's real, andi convinces me that people are always the same. That we're all always the same and we're never alone. That's why."
The way Cesc looks at him, suddenly completely lacking aggression, smiling, Iker feels like he just got Punk'd. He goes back to his reading, feeling irrationally worked up and confused.
Cesc doesn't end up signing up for Intro to Latin. He takes a seminar in Bioethics. But Iker starts finding his Georgics, his Antigone, his Heroides in different parts of the room-on the side of Cesc's bed, in the window where he likes to sit. There are new dogears in the corners of the pages.
"Yeah, but how can Augustan influence not be read into it? How is that even possible?"
"...I haven't seen you get this fired up over lyric poetry since freshman year."
Iker pauses. He isn't sure what to say.
Dr. Beckham is smiling.
"Go on."
The first time Cesc scores a goal, it's like a movie. It's the final ten minutes and the game's been tied for forty, and when he dodges around two defenders and slams it in, Iker doesn't even remember standing up. Only realizing that he's still standing up five minutes later, and still cheering. Sergio blows his noisemaker until he's out of breath.
When Iker opens the door an hour later, he expects Sergio and a bag of late night tacos and beer. What he gets is Cesc's wet hair and his big eyes, his clammy palms when he cups Iker's face and pulls him down, awkward, for a kiss. Iker bites his bottom lip and tugs without even thinking then moves to turn his face away because fuck but Cesc follows and kisses at the side of his mouth, again and again, wherever he can reach. He's showered and damp and suited up in a clean jersey for an afterparty he skipped just for this, just to grope at Iker with clumsy hands and to lick the corner of his lips in the middle of the hallway-and he's so fucking eager and tight everywhere and the way he looked on the pitch and fuck it, fuck it-
Iker fists his hands in his shirt and hauls him inside. Cesc stumbles but he follows easy, no resistance-Iker slams the door and now they're both panting in the dark and it's oddly quiet, like the moment after the roller coaster stops clicking up the hill and just before it tilts over. Iker reaches out to touch his hip right when Cesc fumbles for his hand and pulls it up his shirt and Iker lunges forward, gropes up his body like a blind man, shoves Cesc back against the door hard enough to make the latch rattle in the wall. It occurs to him, absently, that he's never pushed someone like this. Not even in high-school, when it was normal to do that kind of thing. Nothing about this feels normal.
Cesc kisses like he needs it to live and he's eager with his tongue, eager to get in Iker's mouth. When Iker pulls Cesc's shorts down and drops to his knees, he feels Cesc fumble out the frame and the doorhandle to brace himself. Iker touches him then licks and swallows him down-he holds him up when Cesc's knees go weak, Cesc's hips tight in his hands. Iker expects him to cuss, but he doesn't. He breathes and gulps and makes small little pained noises in the back of his throat, sounds desperate and keening and turned on and completely overwhelmed, all at once. It shouldn't be as hot as it is.
Iker bobs. He reaches up for Cesc's hand and puts it in his hair, and Cesc tugs hard enough to hurt. His leg moves against Iker's chest and Iker lets him pull it up, rest his knee on his shoulder. The movement opens Cesc up more, lets Iker duck down and open his mouth over him, pressing his tongue on the spot behind his sack.
Cesc trembles all over. Makes a sound like he's been punched in the gut.
"It's alright," Iker says, running a calming hand up his shirt. He swallows him down. He waits until Cesc catches his breath and then he reaches back, presses again, and Cesc jerks like a puppet on strings. He comes in his mouth. Iker's barely on his feet before Cesc is on him.
"Hold on," Iker mumbles, trying to swallow as much of the taste out of his mouth as he can for him, but Cesc doesn't care. He leans up, grappling, kissing so hard their teeth are clacking. He's half falling into Iker, tripping with his shorts around his ankles, kicking off his shoes as they back up to the closest bed. Iker's bed.
Once they get there, things become clearer-Cesc's not a virgin, but he isn't completely sure what he's doing either. He idles between Iker's legs when Iker sits, looking a little unsure of himself. His hair is sticking up on the side.
"Whatever you want," Iker says, sincere.
Cesc smiles a little (familiar now, when did it get this way) and he carefully straddles his lap, naked except for a jersey and his socks (one sock is sliding down his calf. Without thinking, Iker fixes it). He holds on to Iker's shoulder, looks back, pragmatic-takes a moment to get his balance. Then he's grinding down on Iker's dick, rubbing himself over his jeans.
Whatever Iker was expecting, it wasn't expecting that. He surges up, grabs Cesc's shirt when Cesc starts a rhythm, rolling and steady and heavy. He thinks he could probably come like this. And then it suddenly occurs to him that Cesc is tired. That he was running for an hour and a half and practicing three hours a day for a month before that. His thighs are trembling under Iker's palms.
Iker runs a hand up his side to slow him down. He cups the side of his head and opens his mouth on the side of his neck. It actually hurts something in his chest, to feel how weak Cesc goes for that.
"Slow down," he says. Cesc doesn't listen. Iker presses down on his thighs. He wraps an arm around Cesc and pulls him close. "Slow down."
Cesc listens. He relaxes like his muscles are slowly coming untied and presses his eyes into Iker's shoulder and suddenly Iker feels like he has a huge responsibility, this incredibly huge responsibility that he hadn't even been aware of until this exact moment. He's still holding Cesc in a half-hug when he frames his hip in his hand, then he gently rolls up against him, against the heat between his legs.
It's the same pace he'd give him if they were fucking, slow and deep and rhythmic, and Cesc seems aware of it. He wraps his arms around Iker's neck like it's really happening-and maybe he's pretending it is-lets out a long shuddering breath in his shirt. Iker thrusts and thrusts, harder and quicker each time-then he bites the slope where Cesc's neck meets his shoulder. He's never felt that way before, like he wanted to mark something to make it his. But with Cesc-it isn't even so much ownership as-protection, maybe. That if this belongs to him, maybe he's allowed to look after it. It's all half-formed in his brain but the way Cesc goes limp in his arms when he feels his teeth, like an animal-
"Hold on. I'm close," Iker says.
Cesc pulls back. At first he seems kind of embarrassed. It makes Iker worried. Then he meets Iker's eyes and smiles, nervous, kind of hesitant. He takes Iker's dick out and holds it in his hand-his grip is cold. Iker watches him pull his jersey up past his nipples. He holds it there.
"You like this, right?" Cesc's voice is quiet in the dark. His tone is somewhere between trying to be confident and being absolutely confident and being embarrassed that he knows he can be confident. "You're into this?" He checks Iker's expression. There's no way he can miss the way his mouth opens, the way his grip tightens. Iker thinks of the time in the sun, wonders how Cesc knows-
He tries to find something to say. His mouth moves twice before he manages.
"...Yeah." He rubs the ridge of Cesc's hip with his thumb, careful, and slides the head of his dick down along his stomach. He leans down to kiss a nipple. He can feel the muscles in Cesc's belly flutter when his precome smears on his skin, sticky and cool-he presses over a little bit of soft left over, where Cesc's muscles haven't tightened underneath from running and pull-ups and crunches yet. He watches himself do it. He can feel Cesc watching his face, then he looks down and watches Iker do it too. There's the quiet wet noise of his lips parting and after a moment, Cesc reaches down to grope himself. Like he can't help it.
"Fuck," Iker mumbles. He feels heat rise in his cheeks, and he comes. Some of it dribbles in Cesc's bellybutton.
After a moment, Iker catches the come up in his palm and rolls off the bed to clean up. When he gets back and lays down, it's easy to let Cesc cover him with his body, kiss him until he puts himself to sleep.
"You could have been out drinking," Iker says to the ceiling the next morning. Cesc is lying by his side. Their elbows are bumping. "You could have gotten laid in all the sorority houses. Twice," Iker continues.
"That's true," Cesc says. He's laughing, kind of, and he rolls over to hug Iker before he gets up and stumbles out of bed. Iker watches him fish for his shorts. He doesn't think he's ever been hugged the morning after before.
It's nice.
039. trainer.