(no subject)
title: tell me how this will ruin us.
characters: cesc fabregas/iker casillas.
rating: r.
disclaimer: i'm lying.
word count: 3019.
notes: this is for cafune and everyforever bc they are the lights of my life. hehehehehahahahahaha. WARNING: THIS IS REALLY BAD. hahahaha. don't worry, i probably won't ever write them again. hahahaha.
It starts for the same reason it ends: Cesc looks at Iker like he’s a fucking saint.
In the beginning, it is easy. Iker isn’t sure how it goes wrong, how everything could so palpably wrong in a matter of months.
They fuck in the bathroom, against the wall, in Iker’s hotel room and also in Cesc’s. It feels like a hunger deep inside Iker has finally been fed, and he’s happy. They laugh a lot and don’t talk about it except they do. They allude to it all the time. During training, Iker will be doing something or the other, and if he says anything that could have any sexual connotation to it, Cesc pounces on it.
Something like, “It doesn’t fit,” and Cesc will reply with a wink, “I know.” Something like, “Get the ball,” and Cesc will reply with another wink, “Only yours.”
It’s funny and they laugh and it’s really just sex, in the beginning. Iker picks on him a lot and Cesc likes the attention. They weren’t really friends, before this, and suddenly they’re close. They’re close and that’s what changes things.
The first time Cesc visits Iker in Madrid, Iker’s surprised. He raises an eyebrow, like, what are you doing here?
Cesc offers a shrug and a sheepish grin. He lies, “I was in the area.”
Iker tries to smile but there’s a sinking feeling in his stomach, and maybe it shows on his face because Cesc interjects, “No, really, I had to get a connecting flight to Barcelona, so.”
Iker’s chest feels lighter within seconds. “Okay,” and lets him in.
Cesc wants to say, I’ve missed you, but doesn’t.
Iker remembers when he fucked Cesc for the first time, the way Cesc had laughed shakily - breathless and excited and blind.
Iker still thinks about it, sometimes, when he’s lying in bed and Sara’s not home, when Cesc is in London and all he can hear is Cesc’s laughter in the back of his head.
He sticks a finger in his ear to try to get it out.
Iker never talks about Sara, never even mentions her name. Cesc wonders why, wishes he would because he talks about Carla all the time. He mentions her in passing throughout conversations, it’s always Carla this, and Carla that.
One time, though, he hears Iker telling a story about Sara and he realizes why it’s best Iker doesn’t talk about her - why Iker doesn’t like Carla stories either.
They are eating dinner and Cesc is telling a story. He gestures wildly at some tale about Theo (or was it Robin?), laughs loudly as he retells the memory. His eyes crinkle shut, his hand moves up to his chest. “You should have seen his face,” and Iker doesn’t care, not really. But he cares.
He watches him with a soft smile, fondness creeping into his facial expressions. He tries suppressing it, tries putting on a stoicism that would only hurt Cesc, but fails miserably. It’s his eyes that give him away. He looks down at his plate, just to keep Cesc from seeing.
Iker taps his fingers along his plate. He wants to get up and put them in the sink. He says, “Wait - who is this again? Walcott or van Persie?”
Cesc chuckles, shakes his head a little. He reaches out and puts his hand on Iker’s. Iker stares at it. Cesc says, “I was talking about Jack, Iker,” and when he notices Iker’s uneasy gaze on his hand, he pulls it away. He turns his attention back to his food like there is a circus act going on in it. He’s not smiling anymore.
Iker clears his throat. “So what did Jack do when Robin found out?”
Cesc wants to say, I just said that, but doesn’t. Says, “He ran out of the room,” and laughs like everything is alright when it’s not.
Iker smiles despite himself. Before he gets up to put his plate in the sink, he reaches over and takes Cesc’s hand, squeezes. He doesn’t look into Cesc’s eyes.
They don’t talk for a month before the 5 nil happens and Cesc calls him. They don’t talk on the phone, just like they don’t visit each other, just like they don’t text.
It’s not Cesc’s fault, what he feels when he sees Iker’s face after the 4th goal goes in. It’s really just not his fault. Iker doesn’t say anything when he picks up, and for a moment Cesc wonders if he’s even there before he hears his breathing. “Iker,” he says, voice soft and quiet and full of emotion.
Iker says, voice even quieter, “I can’t do this,” and Cesc isn’t sure what. He hangs up before Iker can say anymore, regrets even calling in the first place. He calls Pique, laughs about his manita, the goals, Sergio’s red, and Iker’s face. He laughs about Iker’s face. Pretends it doesn’t feel like he’s cutting himself.
Iker texts him one day, how’ve you been?
Cesc stares at it for a while. He types out different drafts, variations of: you’re an asshole, and fuck you, and I miss you all the time. He settles on, good, you?
When he doesn’t get a reply, he debates sending another text, like, i was lying. life has been shit without you, but doesn’t.
During training one day, Sergio says randomly in the middle of a conversation that Cesc’s grandfather is sick. Iker looks up from his stretch, “How do you know?”
Sergio shrugs. “We text.”
Iker raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment. Wants to ask, what do you text about? Wants to ask, what else do you do together? Wants to ask, does he mention me?
He doesn’t, and Sergio doesn’t say what he’s been meaning to say for the past few weeks: he asks about you, wants to know how you’ve been, wonders if you’re okay.
Iker decides to call him that night. He runs his hand through his hair three times. He clears his throat before Cesc’s even picked up, nervous because he doesn’t usually do this - he doesn’t call people or talk on the phone or - care. He doesn’t care. When Cesc picks up, Iker asks, “How is he?”
“Iker? What? Who?”
Iker tries again, “Your grandfather.”
“Oh,” and Iker wants to say something, anything, but doesn’t. Cesc continues, “He’s getting better.”
Iker lets out a sigh of relief. “Good,” and then, “And you?”
Cesc doesn’t reply, doesn’t say anything, but then neither does Iker.
The team is at dinner and Cesc sits next to Iker. He moves his hands when he talks, always, and Iker likes to watch. He smiles at the funny anecdotes, at how Cesc talks about things that no one else really finds funny. At one point, when no one is watching and everyone is eating, Iker reaches forward and pushes Cesc’s hair back. Cesc looks at him, his eyes flashing with wonder. He looks down at his plate when Iker moves his hand away, smiles the rest of the evening.
Cesc visits Iker again. Iker doesn’t comment, just lies to himself that surely it’s because Cesc is going to Barcelona again after this. Cesc talks about how he has to be back at training the day after tomorrow, and Iker pretends not to hear.
Iker’s flicking through the channels on television, lands on one that is showing an Arsenal match. He smirks a little, and it’s embarrassing how much he watches Arsenal these days, how he TiVo’s the matches. He glances at Cesc, who’s sitting cross-legged on the couch, his entire body turned to Iker’s side as he tells a story that Iker isn’t really listening to. Cesc glances at the television when he hears the commentator say, “Samir with a cross to Jack,” urgency in his voice.
Iker watches him. Cesc’s eyes flicker across the screen, like he wasn’t on the pitch, like it’s live and the score isn’t settled on the 3 nil it turns out to be. He says, “You look good,” and shifts closer. He puts a hand on Cesc’s thigh.
Cesc doesn’t look away from the television. “No, did you see that? My pass didn’t reach-”
He leans in and kisses Cesc’s jaw. “Shut up, Cesc,” is muttered across his skin. He kisses behind his ear because he knows it makes Cesc squirm. Cesc squirms. He moves to meet Iker’s lips with his own, grins widely into the kiss.
After they’re naked and in bed, clothes strewn across Iker’s room, Cesc says, “I can’t get enough of you.”
Iker kisses down his chest, sucks on his inner thigh before he finally fucks him, quick and hard. Tries to erase what he’s feeling, but can’t. Cesc sifts his hands into Iker’s hair, continues to do so long after he comes. His eyes are telling a story that Iker doesn’t know how to read.
A few days after Arsenal loses to Barcelona, Iker calls him. He’s not sure what to say, he’s not good at this - but he hates losing to Barcelona and the fact that even Cesc is losing to them hurts. He stays on the phone with him and they don’t even talk. Iker watches some television. He makes dinner. He eats dinner. He lies in bed. He stays on the phone with Cesc the entire time.
There is a window in Cesc’s room that overlooks the city. He can see the Emirates from here. He sits in front of it and presses his forehead against it. Pretends Iker’s there with him because it makes it hurt less.
This is just sex, is what Iker thinks when he fucks Cesc. We are only having sex. It means nothing to me, it is just sex.
But they don’t just have sex, and that’s the thing. Maybe that’s the problem.
They talk and they text and they call and they visit, and what the fuck - when did this happen?, is what Iker wants to know.
Cesc’s watching one of Iker’s matches when he sees it. David Beckham in the stands. He calls Iker when the match is over. “Don’t sleep with him.”
“What?” He asks, confused.
“Beckham. Please, don’t, Iker.”
Iker’s voice is hard. “What are you talking about?”
“Iker.”
“Jesus, Cesc,” he hisses before he hangs up.
Later, he tries calling him again. When he doesn’t pick up, he calls Sergio. He says, “Listen, I fucked up.”
Sergio doesn’t say anything for a bit. “What do you mean?”
“I got all fucking possessive and shit,” Cesc puts his face in his hands. This is so embarrassing to be saying all this to Sergio, but he needs him to talk to Iker, and -
Sergio says, voice soft, “Listen, Cesc, Iker left with Becks.”
Cesc bites his lip until it bleeds, goes to a Barcelona match just so Iker can see him in the stands.
They don’t mention Beckham the next time Cesc visits. It’s always Cesc, always Cesc who visits. After they fuck, Cesc says in a determinedly fleeting way, “Can’t believe you didn’t even care about what I had to say.”
Iker turns on his side. His eyebrows furrow. “What are you talking about?”
“I wish you listened to me,” he says, quiet and hurt and sincere. He feels small. “About Beckham.”
“Cesc,” Iker says. He wants to touch him, to touch his face, but doesn’t. Doesn’t know how to.
“I can’t believe you didn’t listen to me, Iker.” And then, “Do you ever listen to me, Iker?”
“We’re just friends,” and Cesc doesn’t know who he’s referring to. He nods, gets up and goes out into the living room. As he walks out, Iker says, “I didn’t sleep with him.”
Cesc sits with his feet up on Iker’s coffee table, just like how Iker hates it, and turns on the television. Iker pads into the room with just his boxers on. He runs a hand through his hair before he sits down next to Cesc. Cesc doesn’t stare.
Iker takes the remote from him, goes to his recorded programs. There are an array of Arsenal matches and Cesc’s turns to stare at him. He says, “What the,” before he stops. Iker’s face is shining with the light from the television. He stares intently at the screen, doesn’t turn to Cesc. His eyes betray him. His neck is red. Cesc laughs quietly.
One time, Cesc knocks on the door and is surprised to see Sara open the door. She says, “Oh! Cesc! I wasn’t expecting you!” All excitement and wide eyes.
Iker is by her side within seconds, and Cesc can tell that he’s trying his best to remain calm. He has a smile plastered on his face but his eyes - Cesc can tell. It’s always the eyes. Cesc says, “Oh, I’m on my way to Barcelona,” lamely, and Iker laughs - nervousness etched in the sound. He looks like he wants to kill Cesc and Cesc wants to squeeze his eyes shut, wants to plead, it’s not my fault. I didn’t know, it’s not my fault.
She says, “Come on in,” at the same time Iker says, “Well, we’re busy, so-”
She slaps his chest, and Cesc - he watches them and Iker notices, tries not to lean into her touch. Cesc looks away.
Sara pulls him in and puts his bag in the guest room. Cesc has never been in here. He looks around the room for a moment before he claps his hands together, not enthusiastic at all but at least he’s trying. He says, “I think I’ll go out for a bit to let you guys have time together.”
Sara says, “Oh, no, you don’t have to,” at the same time Iker says, “Okay.”
Iker nods, and walks Cesc to the door. He mutters, not kindly, “What the fuck, Cesc.”
Cesc’s eyes are downcast. “I’m sorry.”
Iker sighs, rubs a hand across his face. “Just - go. Jesus, just go.”
Cesc leaves. He walks down the street to a park and imagines Iker and Sara taking walks here in the afternoons, in the mornings. He kicks the grass as he walks, wants to make dents in the path so Sara can trip over them. He feels foolish, irrational, but he just. He doesn’t know anymore, what he’s doing. He doesn’t know.
He sits down, in the middle of the park, watches old couples walk past him. He ties knots in the grass.
When it gets dark, and Sara is worried, Iker calls Cesc to see where he is. He goes to the park, finds him sitting in the grass. He doesn’t look up until Iker nudges his leg. He smiles. Iker sits down next to him. He touches his leg for a moment before he retreats his hand, plays at the hem of his own pants instead. He won’t look at Cesc.
He glances at him once and catches his eye. Cesc’s watching him intently, like he has something to say but doesn’t know how. Finally, he says, “I’ll go stay at Xabi’s or Sergio’s.”
“Okay,” is what Iker says when all he wants to say is, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for how I reacted and for this situation and for letting it get this far.
He looks at Cesc and touches his face. He wishes and regrets.
Iker doesn’t reveal to Cesc how well his English has gotten in the past few years. It had all started back when Beckham played for Madrid, but it escalated after Cesc.
Cesc doesn’t have the slightest idea, which may or may not be the cause of their downfall. One night, he whispers things to Iker, things he expects him not to understand. He knows that he knows the basics, so he changes words in his sentences so they lose the intimacy. “I desire to be in your proximity at all times,” when what he means is, I want to be with you always. “I hold high regards for being awakened by your appearance when the sun shines down,” is what he says for, I like waking up next to you in the mornings. “You’re the most endearing person I’ve come to know,” is supposed to mean, you make me happy.
Iker pretends he doesn’t understand, which is Cesc’s reasoning for doing this. He thinks, if he doesn’t understand it then I’m not fucking this up. He thinks, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
Iker turns on his back, puts an arm over his face. Doesn’t want to see Cesc’s face. Cesc presses his feet against Iker’s, puts his face against his shoulder. He whispers, “I feel strong emotions for you,” which means, I love you.
Iker lets him fall asleep before he turns to face him. He touches his face, presses a kiss in between his eyes. Almost says, me too.
Iker can see Cesc across the field, laughing and running around with Pique. He watches too long and has to look away, blinks once and swallows thickly. Something is stuck in his throat and he doesn’t know what. He’s not sure what has happened to him.
Walking to the locker room, Cesc jogs over to him. He smiles but there’s a settled sadness in his eyes. Iker knows it’s his fault. “We’re not like that anymore,” Iker says.
“Like what?” Cesc stops. Iker keeps walking. Cesc reaches out to his arm. “Iker.”
Iker turns around. “Happy.”
Cesc looks past him, into the locker room or maybe into what used to be. He mutters, “But I was.”
“I’m sorry.”
Cesc stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Maybe you don’t listen to me enough.”
Iker shakes his head, says, “Maybe I’ve listened too much.” And that’s the problem, right? He’s feeling things he doesn’t want to be feeling.
Cesc coughs. And when he looks at Iker, it’s just -
(It ends for the same reason it starts: Cesc looks at Iker like he’s a fucking saint.)
characters: cesc fabregas/iker casillas.
rating: r.
disclaimer: i'm lying.
word count: 3019.
notes: this is for cafune and everyforever bc they are the lights of my life. hehehehehahahahahaha. WARNING: THIS IS REALLY BAD. hahahaha. don't worry, i probably won't ever write them again. hahahaha.
It starts for the same reason it ends: Cesc looks at Iker like he’s a fucking saint.
In the beginning, it is easy. Iker isn’t sure how it goes wrong, how everything could so palpably wrong in a matter of months.
They fuck in the bathroom, against the wall, in Iker’s hotel room and also in Cesc’s. It feels like a hunger deep inside Iker has finally been fed, and he’s happy. They laugh a lot and don’t talk about it except they do. They allude to it all the time. During training, Iker will be doing something or the other, and if he says anything that could have any sexual connotation to it, Cesc pounces on it.
Something like, “It doesn’t fit,” and Cesc will reply with a wink, “I know.” Something like, “Get the ball,” and Cesc will reply with another wink, “Only yours.”
It’s funny and they laugh and it’s really just sex, in the beginning. Iker picks on him a lot and Cesc likes the attention. They weren’t really friends, before this, and suddenly they’re close. They’re close and that’s what changes things.
The first time Cesc visits Iker in Madrid, Iker’s surprised. He raises an eyebrow, like, what are you doing here?
Cesc offers a shrug and a sheepish grin. He lies, “I was in the area.”
Iker tries to smile but there’s a sinking feeling in his stomach, and maybe it shows on his face because Cesc interjects, “No, really, I had to get a connecting flight to Barcelona, so.”
Iker’s chest feels lighter within seconds. “Okay,” and lets him in.
Cesc wants to say, I’ve missed you, but doesn’t.
Iker remembers when he fucked Cesc for the first time, the way Cesc had laughed shakily - breathless and excited and blind.
Iker still thinks about it, sometimes, when he’s lying in bed and Sara’s not home, when Cesc is in London and all he can hear is Cesc’s laughter in the back of his head.
He sticks a finger in his ear to try to get it out.
Iker never talks about Sara, never even mentions her name. Cesc wonders why, wishes he would because he talks about Carla all the time. He mentions her in passing throughout conversations, it’s always Carla this, and Carla that.
One time, though, he hears Iker telling a story about Sara and he realizes why it’s best Iker doesn’t talk about her - why Iker doesn’t like Carla stories either.
They are eating dinner and Cesc is telling a story. He gestures wildly at some tale about Theo (or was it Robin?), laughs loudly as he retells the memory. His eyes crinkle shut, his hand moves up to his chest. “You should have seen his face,” and Iker doesn’t care, not really. But he cares.
He watches him with a soft smile, fondness creeping into his facial expressions. He tries suppressing it, tries putting on a stoicism that would only hurt Cesc, but fails miserably. It’s his eyes that give him away. He looks down at his plate, just to keep Cesc from seeing.
Iker taps his fingers along his plate. He wants to get up and put them in the sink. He says, “Wait - who is this again? Walcott or van Persie?”
Cesc chuckles, shakes his head a little. He reaches out and puts his hand on Iker’s. Iker stares at it. Cesc says, “I was talking about Jack, Iker,” and when he notices Iker’s uneasy gaze on his hand, he pulls it away. He turns his attention back to his food like there is a circus act going on in it. He’s not smiling anymore.
Iker clears his throat. “So what did Jack do when Robin found out?”
Cesc wants to say, I just said that, but doesn’t. Says, “He ran out of the room,” and laughs like everything is alright when it’s not.
Iker smiles despite himself. Before he gets up to put his plate in the sink, he reaches over and takes Cesc’s hand, squeezes. He doesn’t look into Cesc’s eyes.
They don’t talk for a month before the 5 nil happens and Cesc calls him. They don’t talk on the phone, just like they don’t visit each other, just like they don’t text.
It’s not Cesc’s fault, what he feels when he sees Iker’s face after the 4th goal goes in. It’s really just not his fault. Iker doesn’t say anything when he picks up, and for a moment Cesc wonders if he’s even there before he hears his breathing. “Iker,” he says, voice soft and quiet and full of emotion.
Iker says, voice even quieter, “I can’t do this,” and Cesc isn’t sure what. He hangs up before Iker can say anymore, regrets even calling in the first place. He calls Pique, laughs about his manita, the goals, Sergio’s red, and Iker’s face. He laughs about Iker’s face. Pretends it doesn’t feel like he’s cutting himself.
Iker texts him one day, how’ve you been?
Cesc stares at it for a while. He types out different drafts, variations of: you’re an asshole, and fuck you, and I miss you all the time. He settles on, good, you?
When he doesn’t get a reply, he debates sending another text, like, i was lying. life has been shit without you, but doesn’t.
During training one day, Sergio says randomly in the middle of a conversation that Cesc’s grandfather is sick. Iker looks up from his stretch, “How do you know?”
Sergio shrugs. “We text.”
Iker raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment. Wants to ask, what do you text about? Wants to ask, what else do you do together? Wants to ask, does he mention me?
He doesn’t, and Sergio doesn’t say what he’s been meaning to say for the past few weeks: he asks about you, wants to know how you’ve been, wonders if you’re okay.
Iker decides to call him that night. He runs his hand through his hair three times. He clears his throat before Cesc’s even picked up, nervous because he doesn’t usually do this - he doesn’t call people or talk on the phone or - care. He doesn’t care. When Cesc picks up, Iker asks, “How is he?”
“Iker? What? Who?”
Iker tries again, “Your grandfather.”
“Oh,” and Iker wants to say something, anything, but doesn’t. Cesc continues, “He’s getting better.”
Iker lets out a sigh of relief. “Good,” and then, “And you?”
Cesc doesn’t reply, doesn’t say anything, but then neither does Iker.
The team is at dinner and Cesc sits next to Iker. He moves his hands when he talks, always, and Iker likes to watch. He smiles at the funny anecdotes, at how Cesc talks about things that no one else really finds funny. At one point, when no one is watching and everyone is eating, Iker reaches forward and pushes Cesc’s hair back. Cesc looks at him, his eyes flashing with wonder. He looks down at his plate when Iker moves his hand away, smiles the rest of the evening.
Cesc visits Iker again. Iker doesn’t comment, just lies to himself that surely it’s because Cesc is going to Barcelona again after this. Cesc talks about how he has to be back at training the day after tomorrow, and Iker pretends not to hear.
Iker’s flicking through the channels on television, lands on one that is showing an Arsenal match. He smirks a little, and it’s embarrassing how much he watches Arsenal these days, how he TiVo’s the matches. He glances at Cesc, who’s sitting cross-legged on the couch, his entire body turned to Iker’s side as he tells a story that Iker isn’t really listening to. Cesc glances at the television when he hears the commentator say, “Samir with a cross to Jack,” urgency in his voice.
Iker watches him. Cesc’s eyes flicker across the screen, like he wasn’t on the pitch, like it’s live and the score isn’t settled on the 3 nil it turns out to be. He says, “You look good,” and shifts closer. He puts a hand on Cesc’s thigh.
Cesc doesn’t look away from the television. “No, did you see that? My pass didn’t reach-”
He leans in and kisses Cesc’s jaw. “Shut up, Cesc,” is muttered across his skin. He kisses behind his ear because he knows it makes Cesc squirm. Cesc squirms. He moves to meet Iker’s lips with his own, grins widely into the kiss.
After they’re naked and in bed, clothes strewn across Iker’s room, Cesc says, “I can’t get enough of you.”
Iker kisses down his chest, sucks on his inner thigh before he finally fucks him, quick and hard. Tries to erase what he’s feeling, but can’t. Cesc sifts his hands into Iker’s hair, continues to do so long after he comes. His eyes are telling a story that Iker doesn’t know how to read.
A few days after Arsenal loses to Barcelona, Iker calls him. He’s not sure what to say, he’s not good at this - but he hates losing to Barcelona and the fact that even Cesc is losing to them hurts. He stays on the phone with him and they don’t even talk. Iker watches some television. He makes dinner. He eats dinner. He lies in bed. He stays on the phone with Cesc the entire time.
There is a window in Cesc’s room that overlooks the city. He can see the Emirates from here. He sits in front of it and presses his forehead against it. Pretends Iker’s there with him because it makes it hurt less.
This is just sex, is what Iker thinks when he fucks Cesc. We are only having sex. It means nothing to me, it is just sex.
But they don’t just have sex, and that’s the thing. Maybe that’s the problem.
They talk and they text and they call and they visit, and what the fuck - when did this happen?, is what Iker wants to know.
Cesc’s watching one of Iker’s matches when he sees it. David Beckham in the stands. He calls Iker when the match is over. “Don’t sleep with him.”
“What?” He asks, confused.
“Beckham. Please, don’t, Iker.”
Iker’s voice is hard. “What are you talking about?”
“Iker.”
“Jesus, Cesc,” he hisses before he hangs up.
Later, he tries calling him again. When he doesn’t pick up, he calls Sergio. He says, “Listen, I fucked up.”
Sergio doesn’t say anything for a bit. “What do you mean?”
“I got all fucking possessive and shit,” Cesc puts his face in his hands. This is so embarrassing to be saying all this to Sergio, but he needs him to talk to Iker, and -
Sergio says, voice soft, “Listen, Cesc, Iker left with Becks.”
Cesc bites his lip until it bleeds, goes to a Barcelona match just so Iker can see him in the stands.
They don’t mention Beckham the next time Cesc visits. It’s always Cesc, always Cesc who visits. After they fuck, Cesc says in a determinedly fleeting way, “Can’t believe you didn’t even care about what I had to say.”
Iker turns on his side. His eyebrows furrow. “What are you talking about?”
“I wish you listened to me,” he says, quiet and hurt and sincere. He feels small. “About Beckham.”
“Cesc,” Iker says. He wants to touch him, to touch his face, but doesn’t. Doesn’t know how to.
“I can’t believe you didn’t listen to me, Iker.” And then, “Do you ever listen to me, Iker?”
“We’re just friends,” and Cesc doesn’t know who he’s referring to. He nods, gets up and goes out into the living room. As he walks out, Iker says, “I didn’t sleep with him.”
Cesc sits with his feet up on Iker’s coffee table, just like how Iker hates it, and turns on the television. Iker pads into the room with just his boxers on. He runs a hand through his hair before he sits down next to Cesc. Cesc doesn’t stare.
Iker takes the remote from him, goes to his recorded programs. There are an array of Arsenal matches and Cesc’s turns to stare at him. He says, “What the,” before he stops. Iker’s face is shining with the light from the television. He stares intently at the screen, doesn’t turn to Cesc. His eyes betray him. His neck is red. Cesc laughs quietly.
One time, Cesc knocks on the door and is surprised to see Sara open the door. She says, “Oh! Cesc! I wasn’t expecting you!” All excitement and wide eyes.
Iker is by her side within seconds, and Cesc can tell that he’s trying his best to remain calm. He has a smile plastered on his face but his eyes - Cesc can tell. It’s always the eyes. Cesc says, “Oh, I’m on my way to Barcelona,” lamely, and Iker laughs - nervousness etched in the sound. He looks like he wants to kill Cesc and Cesc wants to squeeze his eyes shut, wants to plead, it’s not my fault. I didn’t know, it’s not my fault.
She says, “Come on in,” at the same time Iker says, “Well, we’re busy, so-”
She slaps his chest, and Cesc - he watches them and Iker notices, tries not to lean into her touch. Cesc looks away.
Sara pulls him in and puts his bag in the guest room. Cesc has never been in here. He looks around the room for a moment before he claps his hands together, not enthusiastic at all but at least he’s trying. He says, “I think I’ll go out for a bit to let you guys have time together.”
Sara says, “Oh, no, you don’t have to,” at the same time Iker says, “Okay.”
Iker nods, and walks Cesc to the door. He mutters, not kindly, “What the fuck, Cesc.”
Cesc’s eyes are downcast. “I’m sorry.”
Iker sighs, rubs a hand across his face. “Just - go. Jesus, just go.”
Cesc leaves. He walks down the street to a park and imagines Iker and Sara taking walks here in the afternoons, in the mornings. He kicks the grass as he walks, wants to make dents in the path so Sara can trip over them. He feels foolish, irrational, but he just. He doesn’t know anymore, what he’s doing. He doesn’t know.
He sits down, in the middle of the park, watches old couples walk past him. He ties knots in the grass.
When it gets dark, and Sara is worried, Iker calls Cesc to see where he is. He goes to the park, finds him sitting in the grass. He doesn’t look up until Iker nudges his leg. He smiles. Iker sits down next to him. He touches his leg for a moment before he retreats his hand, plays at the hem of his own pants instead. He won’t look at Cesc.
He glances at him once and catches his eye. Cesc’s watching him intently, like he has something to say but doesn’t know how. Finally, he says, “I’ll go stay at Xabi’s or Sergio’s.”
“Okay,” is what Iker says when all he wants to say is, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for how I reacted and for this situation and for letting it get this far.
He looks at Cesc and touches his face. He wishes and regrets.
Iker doesn’t reveal to Cesc how well his English has gotten in the past few years. It had all started back when Beckham played for Madrid, but it escalated after Cesc.
Cesc doesn’t have the slightest idea, which may or may not be the cause of their downfall. One night, he whispers things to Iker, things he expects him not to understand. He knows that he knows the basics, so he changes words in his sentences so they lose the intimacy. “I desire to be in your proximity at all times,” when what he means is, I want to be with you always. “I hold high regards for being awakened by your appearance when the sun shines down,” is what he says for, I like waking up next to you in the mornings. “You’re the most endearing person I’ve come to know,” is supposed to mean, you make me happy.
Iker pretends he doesn’t understand, which is Cesc’s reasoning for doing this. He thinks, if he doesn’t understand it then I’m not fucking this up. He thinks, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
Iker turns on his back, puts an arm over his face. Doesn’t want to see Cesc’s face. Cesc presses his feet against Iker’s, puts his face against his shoulder. He whispers, “I feel strong emotions for you,” which means, I love you.
Iker lets him fall asleep before he turns to face him. He touches his face, presses a kiss in between his eyes. Almost says, me too.
Iker can see Cesc across the field, laughing and running around with Pique. He watches too long and has to look away, blinks once and swallows thickly. Something is stuck in his throat and he doesn’t know what. He’s not sure what has happened to him.
Walking to the locker room, Cesc jogs over to him. He smiles but there’s a settled sadness in his eyes. Iker knows it’s his fault. “We’re not like that anymore,” Iker says.
“Like what?” Cesc stops. Iker keeps walking. Cesc reaches out to his arm. “Iker.”
Iker turns around. “Happy.”
Cesc looks past him, into the locker room or maybe into what used to be. He mutters, “But I was.”
“I’m sorry.”
Cesc stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Maybe you don’t listen to me enough.”
Iker shakes his head, says, “Maybe I’ve listened too much.” And that’s the problem, right? He’s feeling things he doesn’t want to be feeling.
Cesc coughs. And when he looks at Iker, it’s just -
(It ends for the same reason it starts: Cesc looks at Iker like he’s a fucking saint.)