(no subject)
Recipient:
shandoras
Title: The Boys of Summer
Pairing: Cris/Owen
Rating: (light) R
Author's note: Sorry this is so late! I loved the prompt when I first read it and one idea spiraled into about eight. It's long, sorry. I hope you like it. :)
“Here you go, Mister…” the young waiter stopped and glanced down at the name on the credit card and back up at the credit card owner’s face. He sat in front of the waiter with his hand stretched out in front of him, a patient, kind look on his face, waiting for his credit card. Across from the man sat what the waiter assumed to be a friend of his, judging by their comfortable manner together, and through their whole meal he had been trying to figure out how two seemingly so opposite people could be friends. The man with the credit card was… simple, to the waiter. He seemed kind and normal; he didn’t demand or command attention, he seemed much more capable with sitting back and letting other people dominate the conversation; he seemed content to just observe.
His friend (or whatever they were) was completely the opposite, the waiter thought. He lounged back comfortably in his chair, looking expensive and famous (though the waiter had never seen either one before in his life, they were so familiar to him somehow) commanding the attention of all around him. He was apparently very attractive, judging by the giggles of all of the waitresses at the station and the long glances they threw him as they served the other tables, and he exuded an air of arrogance and cockiness that just made people notice him. He didn’t fit in in small town Canada, the waiter thought. From his dark skin and tight clothes to his demeanor, he was very much someone who would have preferred to be out in the middle of everything - at a club, in a loud restaurant, on the beach. In everyway how his friend was very small town and low key, he was outrageous and extravagant. But still, his face gave nothing away with his eyes hidden by a pair of superstar sunglasses as he stared across at his friend who looked up at the waiter, waiting patiently for the check.
“…Mr. Hargreaves,” the waiter finished, handing the check to the man (evidently Mr. Hargreaves) in front of him, who smiled. “Thanks, have a great day,” the waiter said, and turned quickly on his heel, shaking his head as he walked away.
He reached the waiter station and leaned up against the counter, and overheard two of the waitresses giggling and pointing in the direction from which he had just came. “He is lush!” one said, and the other giggled. The young waiter rolled his eyes. Those customers were two friends he was pretty sure he would never understand how on earth they got along.
*
The young waiter looked up from the credit card to Owen’s face, before handing it to him and walking away. By the time he was back inside and out of earshot, Cristiano burst out into loud peals of laughter that rang through the whole street and only turned more heads into his direction, and Owen grinned as he wrote out a (generous) tip for their lunch.
“So how many is that?” he asked, grinning at the man across from him. “I’m still winning 7-1, yes?”
Owen rolled his eyes as he put his credit card back in his wallet and signed the bill. “Yesterday it was only 5-1, where did the other two come from?”
“Well, there were all of those girls at the airport.”
“There were only three of them! And besides, you were in Vogue, that’s an unfair advantage!”
The two of them laughed as they stood up from their lunch and walked down the street, and when they rounded the corner, Cristiano swung an arm around Owen’s shoulders and rested it there as they walked back towards their house.
Owen smiled to himself as they walked through the quiet town, seeing everyone they passed stare Cristiano down. He couldn’t blame them, really. Just because they weren’t recognized doesn’t mean that Cristiano didn’t catch everyone’s attention like he always did, but he was okay with that. He didn’t want the attention, but Cristiano reveled in it. He had a way with people, Owen thought, but especially females. It would have been impossible not to notice all of the waitresses cooing over him like they always did, and Owen found it amusing. He supposed it came in useful too, because it had been so easy for him to distract and charm the stewardesses when he had found the airplane flight too boring and managed to convince Owen that the bathroom would be the perfect place for a hand job. “Welcome to the Mile High Club,” he had whispered, his mouth on Owen’s, who could only moan in reply, and Owen decided it was better to not stroke his ego and tell him that with his orgasm it had felt like two miles. (Sometimes he thought Cristiano’s hands were magic.)
So of course, then, that Cristiano had been recognized more than him. There had been a housewife on the street (who had seen him in Vogue and apparently had a football obsessed husband), and the little kid who walked up to him, pulled on the bottom of his shirt, and asked for an autograph. And in the airport, when they were waiting at the baggage claim, he was swarmed by three very loud teenage girls, one of whom was even wearing a United shirt. Owen calmly stepped to the side and waited for the last of their luggage to come out while Cristiano managed to field all of the autograph requests and side step the incessant “can I have your number?” until the loudest one, without even looking at him, shoved the camera in Owen’s face: “Take our photo.” He duly obliged, and waited for Cristiano until the girls finally left.
When they were out of earshot and away from the baggage claim, Cristiano burst out into laughter, doubling over and having to stop as he let out the laughter that he had been holding inside since the girl shoved the camera in Owen’s hands. “You should have seen your face!”
Owen understood then why he looked happier in those photos than in any others he had ever taken with fans.
You could count on two hands all the times he had been recognized in Canada, in all honesty, but the most recent one ranked as one of the best. The two of them had been walking down the streets of Toronto, where they had stayed overnight before heading further out west. They had just finished a late dinner when a drunk man stumbled out of a pub and started down the street towards them. “Oy!” he shouted when they finally passed him, and grabbed Owen’s arm. “You’re Owen Hargreaves!” he slurred, his accent giving him away as presumably a Scottish expatriate. “Great goal against Arsenal, mate. Glory Glory Man United!” and he proceeded to clap Owen so hard in the back that Cristiano had to catch him to prevent him from falling down. The drunk then walked straight into Cristiano but didn’t look up or apologize to him, and could distinctly be heard muttering “stupid Latin poof” as he walked away. Owen was sure, in that moment, that he got his just desserts, and was pleased to bottom when they got back to the hotel.
He knew that he wasn’t a pin up, nor had he ever been in Vogue, and he honestly didn’t really expect to be recognized. That was probably why he returned every summer; he liked the anonymity, the simplicity, the quietness of all of it, liked returning to where he called home if even for only a week to recharge. And sharing it with Cristiano just made it more of a break, he figured.
“You know,” Cristiano said, finally breaking the silence as they progressed down the peaceful street. “It really is nice to not be noticed here. I can see why you like it.”
Owen smiled at him and his obliviousness as three girls across the street stopped and pointed at him, whispering something behind their hands to each other. “It’s refreshing.”
The two walked arm and arm through the small town, heading towards the road that led them away from the town towards the secluded house they had rented. The day that had started bright, warm and sunny with only a few wisps of clouds had picked up a breeze as a dark layer of clouds built overhead, and Owen glanced up to the thick layer of threatening dark grey clouds. Just as they reached the beginning of the dirt road, Owen didn’t even need to look up to feel that the rain was going to start any second, and without warning, a huge curtain of big fat raindrops, which left marks the size of quarters on the dirt, cascaded out of the sky, soaking both of them through to the skin. “Run!” Owen shouted, and he grabbed Cristiano by the hand as they began to run, laughing and soaking wet, on the dirt road through the rain.
The rain continued to pour when they finally reached the house, and they stood closely together as Owen dug through his pockets for the keys to open the door. Right at that moment the clouds broke and sunlight shone brilliantly through as the rain continued. Cristiano stepped out from underneath the overhang and stared up at the sky, the sunlight and rain hitting his face at the same time, making his skin glow. “This country of yours,” he said with a laugh, looking back at Owen, “is ridiculous.”
And Owen, having abandoned the search for the keys, completely captivated, walked forward and, in the pouring rain, kissed him like he never had before.
*
From his spot at the waiter’s station, the young waiter watched his two customers walk away laughing - probably at him, he thought bitterly. He saw one of the bus boys walking towards him, and sighed, for the inevitable moment of truth was approaching. He wasn’t sure what to expect for a tip - the one (Mr. Hargreaves) seemed kind enough, but he still didn’t have a good read on his friend. So when he opened the bill and read the figure, his jaw dropped - seventy percent?!
Apparently Mr. Hargreaves and his friend were far more generous, and richer, than he had assumed.
And that was when it hit him: Hargreaves… he thought. Owen Hargreaves! As a die-hard Juventus fan, the waiter was almost disappointed in himself for taking this long. He thought to his friend and… shit! It was!
*
That night, Owen woke up in the middle of the night to find one half of his bed empty, and walked downstairs in his underwear to find his lover. He eventually discovered Cristiano out on the deck steps, in a puddle of moonlight, wearing just his underwear and looking miserable. Owen walked over to him and sat down next to him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “What’s up?” he asked, and Cristiano turned towards him looking sad. It was then that he noticed the small bumps all over Cristiano’s arms, back, and chest - mosquito bites. Cristiano gave him a dejected look. “They itch.”
Owen regarded him sadly and grabbed him by the hand. “Come on,” he said, standing up and pulling Cristiano to his feet. “We’ll find something.”
After rummaging through the cabinet in the bathroom and finding nothing, Owen walked downstairs towards the kitchen. “Vinegar it is, then.”
Cristiano apprehensively watched him open and close cabinets from the door way, absentmindedly scratching his left arm.
“Can we go to the beach?” he asked as Owen triumphantly pulled a bottle of white vinegar from the cabinet, and grabbed a roll of paper towel.
“Soon,” he replied, ushering Cristiano out of the kitchen and up the stairs towards the bedroom. “We just have a couple more nights here.”
*
The next night Owen sat on the bed in between Cristiano’s legs, hissing and moaning slightly, his back facing Cristiano (who still smelled vaguely of salad) and a bottle of lotion lying on the bed next to them.
“I told you to put on sunscreen,” Cristiano scolded softly, his hands rubbing lotion on a red back and a pair of even redder shoulders.
“I know, but I was… distracted,” Owen sighed in reply. (Sometimes he thought Cristiano’s hands were magic, but his mouth was certainly not of this world either.)
Cristiano smiled and continued to massage his shoulders and leaned in to blow delicately on Owen’s ear, watching and feeling as he tensed up for a moment at the sensation before relaxing again.
“Besides,” Owen said, “I never expected to fall asleep outside either.” Cristiano didn’t reply but continued to massage his shoulders, kneading tense muscles and extra warm skin beneath his fingers as the two lapsed into a comfortable silence, the only noise in the room their breathing.
Eventually Cristiano broke the silence. “Can we go to the beach now?” he asked playfully, reaching over for more lotion.
“I’ve already booked the tickets. We’re leaving tomorrow.”
*
They left their house the next morning and arrived that afternoon to their private bungalow on a secluded island somewhere that Owen had found (“No press, no fans, nothing. Just you, me, and white sand beaches.”)
A flight that was really far too long with too many layovers had seen them end up in the bathroom, again (it was an art form, Owen thought, how the stewardesses were like putty in Cristiano’s hands) their boredom eventually winning them over. “Ungh… y-you’re just t-too… ohhhh, good as this…” Cristiano had groaned while Owen blew both him and his mind, tongue working as he watched Cristiano use the little self control he had left so that he wouldn’t inform the whole airplane that they were joining the Mile High Club… again. (“This is your captain speaking: if you direct your attention towards the back of the plane, you will remark that in the bathroom there is a man being given a blow job by another man. Get in there, son. And outside to your left, we’re currently flying over…”)
They didn’t even bother to unpack when they got to their room, instead simply collapsing together on the bed, jet lag and travel exhaustion taking over, and both slept peacefully through the day.
When Owen finally came to in a stifling hot bedroom, Cristiano’s arm draped over his waist and all of the blankets in a heap on the floor, the clock next to the bed read 3.30am and he stumbled out of bed and over to the large French doors leading outside, letting in a burst of cool sea air and the sound of the waves lapping up against the shore when he opened them. He let Cristiano sleep and stepped out into the moonlight before stopping about halfway from the water. He sat on the sand, lost in thought as he gazed out to sea, until he heard footsteps behind him, and he turned his head and watched Cristiano as he sat down next to him.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked.
“You.” Cristiano rested his head on Owen’s shoulder, and the two sat quietly listening to the gentle crash of the waves on the shore. They sat together in silence until eventually Owen took Cristiano by the hand and led him back into the bedroom, and pushed him down on the bed.
The first rays of early morning sunlight managed to work their way into the room as the sea breeze blew gently through, causing the thin linen curtains to billow, and the sunlight made Cristiano’s face glow as Owen laid on top of him, thrusting gently. He watched how his skin glowed in the light, how his soft brown eyes unfocused and refocused with every movement in him, felt his body beneath him, tasted his lips and his skin, and wondered how on earth he had ever lived without this.
shandoras
Title: The Boys of Summer
Pairing: Cris/Owen
Rating: (light) R
Author's note: Sorry this is so late! I loved the prompt when I first read it and one idea spiraled into about eight. It's long, sorry. I hope you like it. :)
“Here you go, Mister…” the young waiter stopped and glanced down at the name on the credit card and back up at the credit card owner’s face. He sat in front of the waiter with his hand stretched out in front of him, a patient, kind look on his face, waiting for his credit card. Across from the man sat what the waiter assumed to be a friend of his, judging by their comfortable manner together, and through their whole meal he had been trying to figure out how two seemingly so opposite people could be friends. The man with the credit card was… simple, to the waiter. He seemed kind and normal; he didn’t demand or command attention, he seemed much more capable with sitting back and letting other people dominate the conversation; he seemed content to just observe.
His friend (or whatever they were) was completely the opposite, the waiter thought. He lounged back comfortably in his chair, looking expensive and famous (though the waiter had never seen either one before in his life, they were so familiar to him somehow) commanding the attention of all around him. He was apparently very attractive, judging by the giggles of all of the waitresses at the station and the long glances they threw him as they served the other tables, and he exuded an air of arrogance and cockiness that just made people notice him. He didn’t fit in in small town Canada, the waiter thought. From his dark skin and tight clothes to his demeanor, he was very much someone who would have preferred to be out in the middle of everything - at a club, in a loud restaurant, on the beach. In everyway how his friend was very small town and low key, he was outrageous and extravagant. But still, his face gave nothing away with his eyes hidden by a pair of superstar sunglasses as he stared across at his friend who looked up at the waiter, waiting patiently for the check.
“…Mr. Hargreaves,” the waiter finished, handing the check to the man (evidently Mr. Hargreaves) in front of him, who smiled. “Thanks, have a great day,” the waiter said, and turned quickly on his heel, shaking his head as he walked away.
He reached the waiter station and leaned up against the counter, and overheard two of the waitresses giggling and pointing in the direction from which he had just came. “He is lush!” one said, and the other giggled. The young waiter rolled his eyes. Those customers were two friends he was pretty sure he would never understand how on earth they got along.
*
The young waiter looked up from the credit card to Owen’s face, before handing it to him and walking away. By the time he was back inside and out of earshot, Cristiano burst out into loud peals of laughter that rang through the whole street and only turned more heads into his direction, and Owen grinned as he wrote out a (generous) tip for their lunch.
“So how many is that?” he asked, grinning at the man across from him. “I’m still winning 7-1, yes?”
Owen rolled his eyes as he put his credit card back in his wallet and signed the bill. “Yesterday it was only 5-1, where did the other two come from?”
“Well, there were all of those girls at the airport.”
“There were only three of them! And besides, you were in Vogue, that’s an unfair advantage!”
The two of them laughed as they stood up from their lunch and walked down the street, and when they rounded the corner, Cristiano swung an arm around Owen’s shoulders and rested it there as they walked back towards their house.
Owen smiled to himself as they walked through the quiet town, seeing everyone they passed stare Cristiano down. He couldn’t blame them, really. Just because they weren’t recognized doesn’t mean that Cristiano didn’t catch everyone’s attention like he always did, but he was okay with that. He didn’t want the attention, but Cristiano reveled in it. He had a way with people, Owen thought, but especially females. It would have been impossible not to notice all of the waitresses cooing over him like they always did, and Owen found it amusing. He supposed it came in useful too, because it had been so easy for him to distract and charm the stewardesses when he had found the airplane flight too boring and managed to convince Owen that the bathroom would be the perfect place for a hand job. “Welcome to the Mile High Club,” he had whispered, his mouth on Owen’s, who could only moan in reply, and Owen decided it was better to not stroke his ego and tell him that with his orgasm it had felt like two miles. (Sometimes he thought Cristiano’s hands were magic.)
So of course, then, that Cristiano had been recognized more than him. There had been a housewife on the street (who had seen him in Vogue and apparently had a football obsessed husband), and the little kid who walked up to him, pulled on the bottom of his shirt, and asked for an autograph. And in the airport, when they were waiting at the baggage claim, he was swarmed by three very loud teenage girls, one of whom was even wearing a United shirt. Owen calmly stepped to the side and waited for the last of their luggage to come out while Cristiano managed to field all of the autograph requests and side step the incessant “can I have your number?” until the loudest one, without even looking at him, shoved the camera in Owen’s face: “Take our photo.” He duly obliged, and waited for Cristiano until the girls finally left.
When they were out of earshot and away from the baggage claim, Cristiano burst out into laughter, doubling over and having to stop as he let out the laughter that he had been holding inside since the girl shoved the camera in Owen’s hands. “You should have seen your face!”
Owen understood then why he looked happier in those photos than in any others he had ever taken with fans.
You could count on two hands all the times he had been recognized in Canada, in all honesty, but the most recent one ranked as one of the best. The two of them had been walking down the streets of Toronto, where they had stayed overnight before heading further out west. They had just finished a late dinner when a drunk man stumbled out of a pub and started down the street towards them. “Oy!” he shouted when they finally passed him, and grabbed Owen’s arm. “You’re Owen Hargreaves!” he slurred, his accent giving him away as presumably a Scottish expatriate. “Great goal against Arsenal, mate. Glory Glory Man United!” and he proceeded to clap Owen so hard in the back that Cristiano had to catch him to prevent him from falling down. The drunk then walked straight into Cristiano but didn’t look up or apologize to him, and could distinctly be heard muttering “stupid Latin poof” as he walked away. Owen was sure, in that moment, that he got his just desserts, and was pleased to bottom when they got back to the hotel.
He knew that he wasn’t a pin up, nor had he ever been in Vogue, and he honestly didn’t really expect to be recognized. That was probably why he returned every summer; he liked the anonymity, the simplicity, the quietness of all of it, liked returning to where he called home if even for only a week to recharge. And sharing it with Cristiano just made it more of a break, he figured.
“You know,” Cristiano said, finally breaking the silence as they progressed down the peaceful street. “It really is nice to not be noticed here. I can see why you like it.”
Owen smiled at him and his obliviousness as three girls across the street stopped and pointed at him, whispering something behind their hands to each other. “It’s refreshing.”
The two walked arm and arm through the small town, heading towards the road that led them away from the town towards the secluded house they had rented. The day that had started bright, warm and sunny with only a few wisps of clouds had picked up a breeze as a dark layer of clouds built overhead, and Owen glanced up to the thick layer of threatening dark grey clouds. Just as they reached the beginning of the dirt road, Owen didn’t even need to look up to feel that the rain was going to start any second, and without warning, a huge curtain of big fat raindrops, which left marks the size of quarters on the dirt, cascaded out of the sky, soaking both of them through to the skin. “Run!” Owen shouted, and he grabbed Cristiano by the hand as they began to run, laughing and soaking wet, on the dirt road through the rain.
The rain continued to pour when they finally reached the house, and they stood closely together as Owen dug through his pockets for the keys to open the door. Right at that moment the clouds broke and sunlight shone brilliantly through as the rain continued. Cristiano stepped out from underneath the overhang and stared up at the sky, the sunlight and rain hitting his face at the same time, making his skin glow. “This country of yours,” he said with a laugh, looking back at Owen, “is ridiculous.”
And Owen, having abandoned the search for the keys, completely captivated, walked forward and, in the pouring rain, kissed him like he never had before.
*
From his spot at the waiter’s station, the young waiter watched his two customers walk away laughing - probably at him, he thought bitterly. He saw one of the bus boys walking towards him, and sighed, for the inevitable moment of truth was approaching. He wasn’t sure what to expect for a tip - the one (Mr. Hargreaves) seemed kind enough, but he still didn’t have a good read on his friend. So when he opened the bill and read the figure, his jaw dropped - seventy percent?!
Apparently Mr. Hargreaves and his friend were far more generous, and richer, than he had assumed.
And that was when it hit him: Hargreaves… he thought. Owen Hargreaves! As a die-hard Juventus fan, the waiter was almost disappointed in himself for taking this long. He thought to his friend and… shit! It was!
*
That night, Owen woke up in the middle of the night to find one half of his bed empty, and walked downstairs in his underwear to find his lover. He eventually discovered Cristiano out on the deck steps, in a puddle of moonlight, wearing just his underwear and looking miserable. Owen walked over to him and sat down next to him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “What’s up?” he asked, and Cristiano turned towards him looking sad. It was then that he noticed the small bumps all over Cristiano’s arms, back, and chest - mosquito bites. Cristiano gave him a dejected look. “They itch.”
Owen regarded him sadly and grabbed him by the hand. “Come on,” he said, standing up and pulling Cristiano to his feet. “We’ll find something.”
After rummaging through the cabinet in the bathroom and finding nothing, Owen walked downstairs towards the kitchen. “Vinegar it is, then.”
Cristiano apprehensively watched him open and close cabinets from the door way, absentmindedly scratching his left arm.
“Can we go to the beach?” he asked as Owen triumphantly pulled a bottle of white vinegar from the cabinet, and grabbed a roll of paper towel.
“Soon,” he replied, ushering Cristiano out of the kitchen and up the stairs towards the bedroom. “We just have a couple more nights here.”
*
The next night Owen sat on the bed in between Cristiano’s legs, hissing and moaning slightly, his back facing Cristiano (who still smelled vaguely of salad) and a bottle of lotion lying on the bed next to them.
“I told you to put on sunscreen,” Cristiano scolded softly, his hands rubbing lotion on a red back and a pair of even redder shoulders.
“I know, but I was… distracted,” Owen sighed in reply. (Sometimes he thought Cristiano’s hands were magic, but his mouth was certainly not of this world either.)
Cristiano smiled and continued to massage his shoulders and leaned in to blow delicately on Owen’s ear, watching and feeling as he tensed up for a moment at the sensation before relaxing again.
“Besides,” Owen said, “I never expected to fall asleep outside either.” Cristiano didn’t reply but continued to massage his shoulders, kneading tense muscles and extra warm skin beneath his fingers as the two lapsed into a comfortable silence, the only noise in the room their breathing.
Eventually Cristiano broke the silence. “Can we go to the beach now?” he asked playfully, reaching over for more lotion.
“I’ve already booked the tickets. We’re leaving tomorrow.”
*
They left their house the next morning and arrived that afternoon to their private bungalow on a secluded island somewhere that Owen had found (“No press, no fans, nothing. Just you, me, and white sand beaches.”)
A flight that was really far too long with too many layovers had seen them end up in the bathroom, again (it was an art form, Owen thought, how the stewardesses were like putty in Cristiano’s hands) their boredom eventually winning them over. “Ungh… y-you’re just t-too… ohhhh, good as this…” Cristiano had groaned while Owen blew both him and his mind, tongue working as he watched Cristiano use the little self control he had left so that he wouldn’t inform the whole airplane that they were joining the Mile High Club… again. (“This is your captain speaking: if you direct your attention towards the back of the plane, you will remark that in the bathroom there is a man being given a blow job by another man. Get in there, son. And outside to your left, we’re currently flying over…”)
They didn’t even bother to unpack when they got to their room, instead simply collapsing together on the bed, jet lag and travel exhaustion taking over, and both slept peacefully through the day.
When Owen finally came to in a stifling hot bedroom, Cristiano’s arm draped over his waist and all of the blankets in a heap on the floor, the clock next to the bed read 3.30am and he stumbled out of bed and over to the large French doors leading outside, letting in a burst of cool sea air and the sound of the waves lapping up against the shore when he opened them. He let Cristiano sleep and stepped out into the moonlight before stopping about halfway from the water. He sat on the sand, lost in thought as he gazed out to sea, until he heard footsteps behind him, and he turned his head and watched Cristiano as he sat down next to him.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked.
“You.” Cristiano rested his head on Owen’s shoulder, and the two sat quietly listening to the gentle crash of the waves on the shore. They sat together in silence until eventually Owen took Cristiano by the hand and led him back into the bedroom, and pushed him down on the bed.
The first rays of early morning sunlight managed to work their way into the room as the sea breeze blew gently through, causing the thin linen curtains to billow, and the sunlight made Cristiano’s face glow as Owen laid on top of him, thrusting gently. He watched how his skin glowed in the light, how his soft brown eyes unfocused and refocused with every movement in him, felt his body beneath him, tasted his lips and his skin, and wondered how on earth he had ever lived without this.