Comfort (Cesc/Robin, PG-13)
Comfort (Cesc/Robin)
You’re forced to watch the last 30 minutes of this game on the fucking TV in the dressing room. You’ve been subbed off and you’re more than a little on edge, because if you were still on then you can actually do something to help the team other than just sitting and watching{C}, waiting for time to move faster so that your team could nick in a goal and leave no time for the other team to score. Draw? You don’t even want to think about it. Arsenal needs a win after the horrible two or so weeks you’ve had.
{C}You watch as the team tires, slowly and torturously like a car running out of gas and knowing there’s no petrol station in sight. It’s not slow enough to not be noticed, though. In fact it’s as clear as day.
Alex joins you; Tomas follows soon after that. They don’t say much as their eyes meet yours; you don’t need anything more than to see the withdrawn looks on their faces. The team is running up and down the pitch, the fans jeering and cheering, Arsene is looking stoic but restlessly on his feet in the dying moments. Your head is throbbing slightly, more noticeable now that you’re not running on adrenaline from playing the game. You don’t really care too much about it other than the fact that it’s making your eyes blur and your eyelids want to close but you’re forcing them open because you need to. Need to see this game end the way it’s supposed to.
{C}Your eyes latch onto Cesc in the middle of the pitch, and you notice the lag that’s weighing down his legs; the slant of his shoulders, more inclined than you remember them to be. It’s his face that remains the same, eyes dark with determination and concentration, jaw tight, chin up. Sometimes the Spaniard reminds you of a warrior, and silently you will him on. The game is not over yet.
And almost as soon as you said it, the game’s over. The ball lands in the net; but it’s the wrong net, damnit.{C}Too fast for you to see properly without replays, but the netting behind Jens ripples and you know all three points are gone. The stadium erupts and your ears take in the thunderous rumble that resonates within the dressing room. It's the last thing your growing headache needs right now.
Alex and Tomas are on their feet suddenly, and you look back to the screen. Pardew’s just said something (words you can’t hear or lipread - who the hell can lipread?) and Arsene’s lashed out. He looks furious and all three of you are incensed, yelling obsenities at the rather unresponsive television screen.
(You think bitterly that you've missed all of today's big moments - everything was on replays - but if you were out there right now you'd probably get a red and wind up back here anyway. Absolutely absurd lose-lose situation.)
{C}The rest of the game flies by and of course you’ve lost, but it’s not worth thinking about now that Arsene’s refused Pardew’s handshake and more than enough drama is building - it’s like watching an avalanche.
Gilberto’s holding down Cesc and there’s some idiot trying to talk to the teen. Cesc looks like it’s the last place he wants to be, slipping free of Gilberto and purposely avoiding…Harewood, is it? Your eyes are squinting as Harewood grabs hold of Cesc and a rush of blood rushes to your head, what the fuck, get your filthy hands off him! It’s Cesc’s turn to look furious as West Ham players surround him and you see him lashing out, angry words shouted at the referee, at them{C}. He’s throwing his arm up in disgust and he disappears down the tunnel. Alex switches the television off then and the three of you decide to get back out to the mouth of the tunnel to meet the rest of the team when Phillippe appears and says, “Don’t, just don’t.” and you all spin on your heels and follow, surrounding him. “What’s going on?” but there’s no time for Phillippe to explain because Kolo and the others are coming in too, telling you to just be patient and get dressed and wait.
You’re about to tell him that you’re getting fucking sick of waiting around when Cesc enters the change rooms and all words are lost as you glance at him. He storms in and sits on the bench heavily, ripping off his shoes and his socks and throwing them haphazardly into his bag before he pulls - yanks - out his change of clothes. Phillippe sends him a wary glance as he asks Cesc if he’s even going to shower before he changes but Cesc shuts him up with a “What makes you think I give a fuck whether or not I stink right now?” and you know right then that if anyone so much as touched{C}{C}Cesc at that moment he might be the victim of one cracking Spanish-fisted punch.
*** {C}
{C}“Cesc.”
It’s about four in the morning and you were actually halfway to Slumberland when a phone call arrived from Phillippe, asking you if Cesc was there, because he just woke up in the middle of the night and Cesc wasn’t in the apartment they shared. On any other night you’d be reassuring Phil and going back to sleep in less than ten minutes but the sound of “Robin, please,{C}” is making you pull on a pair of jeans and a jacket, grabbing the car keys and telling the Swiss “Just call me if you find him first, I don’t want to be wandering around all night.”
{C}“Cesc,” you call out again, to a silhouetted figure standing alone on the empty ground. Emirates appears surreal at this time of night, and the figure even more so. Like a bad movie reel you watch as the figure runs, up and down the pitch with a ball at his feet. One or two floodlights are on, and they illuminate Cesc as he runs underneath them, a flash of yellow (he mustn’t have washed the kit yet) against the green. You’re thinking he’s insane, his hair spiked in all directions, the kit clinging onto his skin with dirt and sweat. You approach him and you’re surprised when he runs straight past you as if you’re invisible, into the area and kicks the ball straight into the net from about 20 yards away. He doesn’t stop, continues running, into the net, untangling the ball with his feet and he flies off again to the other end, pretending to dodge midfielders and defence, kicking the ball high into the corner.
You chase him then, because he really is being crazy, going round in circles like a shooting star - but not really a star because it’s circling, it’s in orbit around no Sun. His eyes are dark again but it’s a different shade of black, not like before, it’s an insane and irrational kind of black and he needs to stop{C}.
{C}You mark him and he tries to dodge you, dummying successfully before cracking another into the back of the net. It’s you that picks up the ball this time but he’s too fast, stealing the ball without a second glance, tearing down the pitch. You manage to give him a firm tackle, sending him sprawling to the ground before you try to shoot long-range from midfield and instead the ball rockets into the stands.
{C}You turn around to look at him then, breathing heavily. He's collapsed on the grass in the dark, hidden away from the glow of the floodlights. He glares at you from his position on the ground.
“You’re no Xabi Alonso,” he says.
You bitterly want to reply with an "I know. I'm better." but you don’t say anything, because you think whatever you throw at him will just bounce right off and you'll fight and you're not really up for it at four - five - in the morning. You watch as he shuts his eyes for a moment and you can imagine the circles underneath his lashes, even if you can't actually see them in the darkness.
"I wanted to be alone, Robin."
"Phil sent me."
He lets out a bitter laugh, low and crisp. "He thinks I need to be taken care of and watched all the time, does he?"
"You tell me."
You decide to join him on the grass and when you near him he says, "Don't fuck with me, van Persie. I don't need your cocky bullshit tonight."
It's just great, don't you think, when you're out here cold and awake and the person you're losing sleep for really doesn't want you here. You rest your head against the cushion of grass next to him and reach for your phone.
"I should tell him I found you, he told me to call-"
A cold hand stills your arm. "Don't."
You don't reply. The sky is starless, the English clouds blanketing the stadium, and you let the stillness of the air descend upon the pair of you lying in the dark. Cesc isn't moving and you momentarily think he's fallen asleep (which, when you think about it, wouldn't be very surprising).
"Cesc?"
"Hmm?"
"What are you doing here?"
"Practicing."
"Practicing what? Being a crazy git? I'm no Xabi Alonso but you're no Superman."
"I never said I was Superman!"
"You're running up and down this pitch at four in the morning and you're telling me you're not vaguely trying to be Superman?"
"I was just practicing.”
"That's bull and you know it."
"What do you want me to do then? I've playing my heart out and goddamnit, Robin, it's not good enough."
"You need to go home and have a rest. Right now."
"No." Cesc shakes his head quickly. "I'm not tired."
"You looked dead today, Cesc."
"I need to try harder."
"You still look dead."
"I do not."
"Try telling that to a mirror, Cesc I-haven't-even-showered-yet Fabregas."
"Thank you for letting me know I stink in more ways than one."
"Well my senses are only making me aware of one at the moment."
Cesc shifts closer and your shoulders bump.
"Are your senses telling you to get away from me now?"
"…I think my senses have died already, so probably not."
"Darn."
You lie still when Cesc turns onto his side and try to react properly when he suddenly leans over to give you a hug, awkward because the arm you want to wrap around him is pinned down by his body, pressed against your side. For a moment you can't breathe and you tell yourself that it's because it's gravity and not because it's Cesc.
He's not on top of you, not really, but his head rests in the hollow between your neck and your shoulderblade and he has an arm swung around your waist. The Spaniard buries his head into that crook and you can almost feel the flutter of his eyelashes against the sensitive skin at your throat as he inhales deeply. You think you hear a soft "Thanks," but you're not sure so you don't say anything, opting to hang on to him with the hand that's not currently losing blood circulation. Cesc feels comfortable against you, like the heavy blanket you love wrapping around yourself watching late-night movies at home.
Cesc chuckles above you as you yawn loudly, blinking your eyes several times to shake off sleep. You can't help but protest as he sits up and he hovers above you, smiling softly and your heart didn't just skip a beat because it was excited to see Cesc smile for the first time in what seems like forever. It didn't.
When he suggests that maybe it's time to leave it is you that disagrees, giving a nod to the sky. His eyes widen slightly when he sees the yellow ink of morning spilling across the black canvas, and you look at him amusedly as he quickly settles back on the grass by your side. You give him a look before turning your eyes upward again, telling him that you're taking him to Quarantine at the airport before he heads home for a shower, because he's so fucking filthy that the bacteria on his clothes must have mutated. He gives you a firm nudge in the ribs and you tell him that it hurts like hell and he laughs, and you think that if you could read music then that the melody in your ears probably means I told you not to fuck with me, van Persie.
The skies lighten and the two of you get up and head off, hopefully before any of the maintenance guys arrive. You study the stadium, panning it with your eyes, the red against the green and you suddenly think We're going to SLAUGHTER Liverpool next Saturday. {C}You look over to Cesc and see him doing the same and probably thinking along the same lines because the fire in his eyes is back.
"Sleep and shower first, Fabregas. And expect my body in a Phillippe Senderos matchbox. I still haven't called him."
~Fin~