Silver and Gold
by nahco3
The first thing Fabio says to Iker is: "Congratulations." Iker ducks his head and does his best to smile graciously. Fabio smiles back, blinding and insincere, and throws his arm over Iker's shoulder. The air is thick and hot, the final weeks of summer burning themselves out, and Fabio's body, pressed against his, makes Iker sweat. They stand next to each other in silence. Iker rubs his hands on his shorts and pulls on his gloves, movements constrained by Fabio's arm.
"Thank you," he says, belatedly. Fabio gives him a startled look, like he doesn't understand what Iker is saying. Then he throws back his head and laughs.
*
Iker doesn't remember the last thing he said to Fabio. He was drunk, drunker than he should have been; drenched in champagne; soaked in the soft, nighttime heat of early summer. Fabio sat down next to him, grinning broadly (his smile brighter than usual, his eyes shinning). Iker realized he was laughing at nothing, so he turned his head to laugh at Fabio. Fabio was laughing at Iker, at his wide dark eyes, at his voice hoarse from screaming, at the absurdity of victory.
Later, Iker will catalogue excuses. Alcohol. Hundreds of flashbulbs. The crowd cheering so loudly he ceases to hear them, but can feel the applause in his bones hours later. Kissing the trophy, tasting silver.
And in the back of it all, nagging at him, the disappointment. This is Real Madrid. He is Real Madrid. One trophy where there should be two. It is half a victory and he knows it, hates himself for being satisfied with it. Next year. Next year.
Fabio fucked him that night, golden and discontented. They lay next to each other, Iker looking ahead and Fabio looking back, looking for trophies, looking for happiness, looking for something that lasts, the way gold and silver only promise to.
*
It's fall, and he's tired. The trainers don't think he had enough time to recover from Euros. Barcelona is good this season. Iker runs out of excuses. He has bruises the shape of Fabio's mouth on his collar bones.
Fabio is lying sprawled on the bed. Iker is sitting up and leaning against the headboard. Fabio looks up at Iker with his half-lidded steel-blue eyes. Maybe Iker's thinking too much, maybe not enough, but he reaches down and rests his hand on Fabio's naked shoulder, runs his pale thumb across Fabio's bronzed skin.
Fabio's expression doesn't change, doesn't slide into the predatory like Iker expects. He doesn't even smile. Iker moves to withdraw his hand, regretting the (accidental?) intimacy, but Fabio stops him, rolls in so that his nose presses against Iker's hip. Iker can feel Fabio's breath, hot against his skin.
*
"What was it like?"
"What was what like?" Fabio gives Iker a considering look, then ruffles his hair.
"Winning the World Cup."
Little wrinkles appear around the corners of Fabio's eyes as he laughs, just loud enough, at Iker and with Iker and with leftover glory.
"It was good," he says, "it was very good. You should try it." He grins wider, entirely and improbably likeable. Iker wonders what he regrets.
The first thing Fabio says to Iker is: "Congratulations." Iker ducks his head and does his best to smile graciously. Fabio smiles back, blinding and insincere, and throws his arm over Iker's shoulder. The air is thick and hot, the final weeks of summer burning themselves out, and Fabio's body, pressed against his, makes Iker sweat. They stand next to each other in silence. Iker rubs his hands on his shorts and pulls on his gloves, movements constrained by Fabio's arm.
"Thank you," he says, belatedly. Fabio gives him a startled look, like he doesn't understand what Iker is saying. Then he throws back his head and laughs.
*
Iker doesn't remember the last thing he said to Fabio. He was drunk, drunker than he should have been; drenched in champagne; soaked in the soft, nighttime heat of early summer. Fabio sat down next to him, grinning broadly (his smile brighter than usual, his eyes shinning). Iker realized he was laughing at nothing, so he turned his head to laugh at Fabio. Fabio was laughing at Iker, at his wide dark eyes, at his voice hoarse from screaming, at the absurdity of victory.
Later, Iker will catalogue excuses. Alcohol. Hundreds of flashbulbs. The crowd cheering so loudly he ceases to hear them, but can feel the applause in his bones hours later. Kissing the trophy, tasting silver.
And in the back of it all, nagging at him, the disappointment. This is Real Madrid. He is Real Madrid. One trophy where there should be two. It is half a victory and he knows it, hates himself for being satisfied with it. Next year. Next year.
Fabio fucked him that night, golden and discontented. They lay next to each other, Iker looking ahead and Fabio looking back, looking for trophies, looking for happiness, looking for something that lasts, the way gold and silver only promise to.
*
It's fall, and he's tired. The trainers don't think he had enough time to recover from Euros. Barcelona is good this season. Iker runs out of excuses. He has bruises the shape of Fabio's mouth on his collar bones.
Fabio is lying sprawled on the bed. Iker is sitting up and leaning against the headboard. Fabio looks up at Iker with his half-lidded steel-blue eyes. Maybe Iker's thinking too much, maybe not enough, but he reaches down and rests his hand on Fabio's naked shoulder, runs his pale thumb across Fabio's bronzed skin.
Fabio's expression doesn't change, doesn't slide into the predatory like Iker expects. He doesn't even smile. Iker moves to withdraw his hand, regretting the (accidental?) intimacy, but Fabio stops him, rolls in so that his nose presses against Iker's hip. Iker can feel Fabio's breath, hot against his skin.
*
"What was it like?"
"What was what like?" Fabio gives Iker a considering look, then ruffles his hair.
"Winning the World Cup."
Little wrinkles appear around the corners of Fabio's eyes as he laughs, just loud enough, at Iker and with Iker and with leftover glory.
"It was good," he says, "it was very good. You should try it." He grins wider, entirely and improbably likeable. Iker wonders what he regrets.