And I Want What's Better for You
Title: And I Want What's Better for You
Pairing: ... Unai Casillas/Sergio Ramos
Rating: R
Disclaimer: If only I could say that this work was grounded in reality. If only.
Words: ~2000
Summary: Someone at footballkink said it better than I ever could: in short, Unai is spending quite a bit of time at the Bernabeu - and, more specifically, with Sergio Ramos - and pretty soon, Iker's gonna figure out why.
Iker loves having his little brother around the Bernabeu. It’s like being at home. Like he’s in high school again: Unai following him through the house, padding into his room around midnight - well past a ten-year-old’s bedtime - to discuss new pet options and the merits of one cartoon versus another. It’s that, without the hamsters or Captain Planet.
It’s just fun to pull apart the Velcro on his gloves, tugging them tighter, and knowing his brother is right behind him. Iker can feel the weight of Unai’s eyes as he throws his body in front of the ball, slamming into the ground and pushing up to his knees to kick it back to Alvaro or Raul or, when neither of them are paying attention - which is far too often - Sergio. He sets his feet again for another strike.
In the empty stadium, Unai’s gaze is heavier than if the seats were packed, than if eighty thousand sets of eyes alighted on Iker.
Unai follows him off the pitch after practice, falls right into step with Iker. Iker pulls his jersey over his head, keeps walking. Sergio is already halfway down the steps and into the tunnel, but turns when Iker calls his name.
“Keep up, grandpa,” Sergio shouts, not bothering to slow down. Unai snorts.
Iker kicks at the back of his knees and tells him to shut up.
//
Sometimes Iker forgets that Unai isn’t ten anymore. He isn’t shopping around for hamsters these days.
Things have evolved: Unai holding the television remote has become Unai holding a beer. Unai sitting at the kitchen counter has become Unai sitting on a barstool.
Iker is on his fourth or fifth beer when Marcelo elbows him accidentally, gesticulating wildly while telling a story. Iker turns away from the conversation he was having with Xabi - “I didn’t ask to be playing ping pong, you know? They put the paddle in my hand,” Xabi was confessing earnestly - to jab Marcelo in the shoulder, only to see Sergio and his little brother deep in conversation at the bar.
The barstools are higher than the chairs that rested against the kitchen counter in their childhood home.
Sergio is saying something important; Iker recognizes his wide eyes, the stab of his finger at a torn up napkin on the bar. Unai nods over and over again. He keeps opening his mouth to speak when Sergio pauses, but eats his words when his companion continues. Iker smiles weakly, confused. He wonders if he’s seeing things.
Xabi leans into his back, placing a hand on Iker’s shoulder. Iker tenses as Sergio reaches out, pointing a finger at the middle of Unai’s face. “Do they know each other?” Xabi asks.
“Not too well. I thought,” Iker says awkwardly.
“He’s a midfielder. He should be talking to me,” Xabi notes sarcastically.
Iker’s shoulders relax just as Unai throws his head back, laughing.
//
Iker spends Friday afternoon with his family. They have lunch at home and his mom busies herself with inane things while Iker, Unai, and their father watch a stupid game show on television. It’s American and nonsensical - there’s stupid little games and a giant wheel and a fat guy with a long microphone. Nothing about it is funny, except for maybe the fat guy’s glasses.
Iker’s father asks Unai what the fat guy is getting so excited about - Iker wonders why stacked washer-dryer combos still exist and why giving one away as a prize would be so enthralling - but Unai doesn’t answer. He’s absolutely engrossed in his phone. Iker watches him scroll through a message, laugh to himself, and type out a response.
“What’s so amusing?” Iker asks unenthusiastically. He doesn’t like to text.
Unai looks up. “Nothing.”
“Who are you texting?”
“No one.”
Iker scoffs. “That’s cool, Unai.”
Unai looks at him blankly. He’s trying to think of something to appease Iker, to get him to stop asking questions. “It’s a friend.”
“Okay."
Unai gets up, heads towards the back of the house. Ten minutes later, he walks through the room wearing his coat. Iker can hear his keys jingling as he heads for the front door.
“Sergio says hi,” Unai says over his shoulder. The door swings shut.
//
Iker keeps finding Unai in weird places. Leaning on a pool cue in the game room, watching tape is the video room, in the tiny alcove between the vending machines and the bathroom. It's almost as if he knows the Bernabeu better than Iker does. Iker will leave him on the field and find him leaning over the pool table ten minutes later. He starts to think that Unai is using secret passages or teleporting around the stadium.
Once, he loses Unai completely, finds him hours later drilling balls into the back of the net with Iker's defenders. The pitch is almost dark, but Iker can see Sergio juggling a ball distractedly while lecturing Unai. Alvaro and Raul are literally wrestling behind the net, yelling and kicking at each other. Sergio points at the goal while giving Iker's brother directions, ignoring his teammates until they decide to leave each other alone. Raul kicks the ball that was sitting at his feet toward Sergio, but Sergio just lets it bounce off his shin. He screams something uncomplimentary back to the other two and Unai laughs loudly, Iker watching from afar.
//
Iker calls him from the parking garage after the next match. He’s just about to hang up when Unai answers.
“Did you fucking leave?” Iker asks, not meaning to sound so scathing.
“I just, I. Forgot I had plans.”
Iker sighs. “You really think I can’t tell when you’re lying.”
“I forgot I had plans.”
//
Iker is the last one in the locker room after practice because he can’t find his watch. He’s pretty sure it’s somewhere in this locker room, and he’s determined to find it. He has a lot of watches, but this one is his favorite. He’s going to find this watch.
He’s pulling socks and boots and clothes he didn’t even know he still had out of his locker, wondering if it fell off the hook and got lost in the mess. He sighs, turning around to pick up the pile of shit and shove it back into the stall. Maybe he left it in his car.
As he’s turning to leave, a glint of something shiny catches his eye from under the bench. He looks down, but quickly looks off toward the hallway as he hears a loud thump. He looks down again, hoping he dropped his watch and it rolled away or something, but instead it’s a belt. A belt with a really familiar buckle.
He’s really hoping none of his teammates own the same belt as his little brother, because it’s awful enough to see that warped, chrome monstrosity in his own home. Unai told him it was an anchor or some shit, but it’s really just a unsightly twist of metal. He hates that fucking belt. As he’s picking it up off the floor, he looks closer.
There’s a homemade hole, added because the belt was too big for whoever originally bought it. Someone must have sunk a nail or a pen through the leather so the person could make it even tighter.
Iker remembers stabbing at this belt with a safety pin, scissors, and finally a kitchen knife, working to stretch the hole big enough so little Unai could cinch this fucking ugly thing around his hips when he was sixteen or seventeen, thin as a rail.
He looks around the room, and there’s a pair of sneakers that don’t belong to Sergio sitting in front of his locker.
He hears the thump again, from the direction of the hallway.
Iker slowly heads down the hall, towards the showers. With every step he’s hoping he doesn’t hear running water, but soon he’s too close. He can hear the spray of the shower and low voices. He peers around the corner.
His little brother has his palms flat against the wall of the shower, back sloping and stretched, feet spread apart and planted. His head is hanging between his arms, fallen against his chest, rivulets of water running down his legs.
The lean, tanned body behind him, rocking against Unai, belongs to Sergio Ramos.
Stunned into silence, Iker just stares, watching his teammate pushing up against his brother, fucking him slowly. Sergio is gripping Unai’s hip with one hand and reaching around their bodies with the other, below, out of Iker’s view. Unai is panting quietly, body almost perfectly still. Sergio continues to thrust, rocking on the balls of his feet - almost gliding, Iker thinks.
When Sergio pushes in with a particular sharpness Unai breathes in, slamming his fist into the wall heavily. Their movements are so slow. The shower is hitting Sergio in the chest and splashing over Unai, his back flushed and red. Neither of them speak, but Iker can tell that Sergio is losing control by the way his knees lock, the way he struggles to remain standing.
Sergio runs his hand from Unai's hip up across his back and onto his shoulder, pulling him back as he pushes in again. A small noise escapes from Unai's throat, almost inaudible over the sound of the water. Sergio pushes in as far as he can go and pauses, his hand squeezing Unai's shoulder, the skin under his fingers going white. Sergio's head falls back, neck loose.
Unai says Sergio’s name quietly.
Iker turns and leaves.
//
“You were there? You watched?”
“I didn’t watch, Unai, I - ”
“You fucking watched!”
“I did not watch, Unai, because, as weird as this may sound, I have the fucking right to be in those showers. Unlike you.”
“… I had the right.”
“Getting fucked by someone who has the right doesn’t give you the right.”
“That’s not even funny.”
“Because I’m really trying to be funny right now, Unai.”
“Stop saying my name.”
“Unai.”
“Stop saying my name like that.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“Not that long.”
“How long is ‘not that long’”?
“Less than a month.”
“Unai.”
“Less than two months.”
“I can’t fucking believe this.”
“What?”
“This!”
“What?”
“He’s just … he’s Sergio Ramos, Unai. I don’t want him to fuck you up.”
“I really like him.”
“I don’t want him to fuck you up.”
“You’ve gotta have some faith, Iker. He told me he’s not seeing that freckle-faced douchebag anymore. And he doesn’t even see girls that often, either. I trust him.”
“Really?”
“I do.”
“I trust you, then.”
“No you don’t.”
“I do.”
“Alright.”
“I really don’t want to see you fucking in our showers again, though.”
“He’s just so good, Iker, sometimes it’s just … he does this thing with his - ”
“I don’t want to see it. Or hear it. Or hear about it.”
“…fine.”
//
This time, Iker walks out to the parking garage with Unai. As he’s opening his door, Sergio appears.
“Get out of here, man,” Iker says, but it’s good-natured. Sergio smiles but doesn’t laugh - doesn’t want to push the older brother too far, after all - and sidles up next to Unai. Iker can’t see over the car, but he’s pretty sure Sergio’s hand is resting on Unai’s hip. He images Sergio Ramos’ finger slid through his brother’s belt loop, like this is a scene from the end of a romantic comedy. He tries not to gag.
Sergio turns from Unai to face Iker. “Do you guys want to go out for dinner?” he asks, addressing them both. “My treat.”
Unai looks at Iker before answering. He can read Iker’s poker face. (His jaw would be set more tightly if he was hesitant; his eyes would be smaller and darker if he was angry.) “I’m down.”
“Why don’t you just come over? I’ll cook.” Unai snorts at Iker’s offer. “I can cook, Unai. I’m not you.”
“I like that idea,” Sergio says. “I’ll follow you home.” He kisses Unai quickly on the forehead, pushes him lightly as he turns to walk away. “Better be good, Iker.”
“You can go fuck yourself, Ramos.”
Unai laughs. Iker grimaces.
"Ew."
Author's notes:
- My Unai was built from an interview or two and various blog posts. I apologize.
- I tried to avoid creepy, voyeur!Iker. It is up to you, glorious readers, to let me know if I succeeded!
- Factual inaccuracies are either purposeful or blatant ignorance. (What? Training doesn't take place at the Bernabeu? I CAN'T HEAR YOU.)
- Title and cut text taken from Under Cover of Darkness by The Strokes, which is so ace I can't even put it into words.
- Since the prompt is from footballkink, anon commenting is on!
Iker appreciates you.
Pairing: ... Unai Casillas/Sergio Ramos
Rating: R
Disclaimer: If only I could say that this work was grounded in reality. If only.
Words: ~2000
Summary: Someone at footballkink said it better than I ever could: in short, Unai is spending quite a bit of time at the Bernabeu - and, more specifically, with Sergio Ramos - and pretty soon, Iker's gonna figure out why.
Iker loves having his little brother around the Bernabeu. It’s like being at home. Like he’s in high school again: Unai following him through the house, padding into his room around midnight - well past a ten-year-old’s bedtime - to discuss new pet options and the merits of one cartoon versus another. It’s that, without the hamsters or Captain Planet.
It’s just fun to pull apart the Velcro on his gloves, tugging them tighter, and knowing his brother is right behind him. Iker can feel the weight of Unai’s eyes as he throws his body in front of the ball, slamming into the ground and pushing up to his knees to kick it back to Alvaro or Raul or, when neither of them are paying attention - which is far too often - Sergio. He sets his feet again for another strike.
In the empty stadium, Unai’s gaze is heavier than if the seats were packed, than if eighty thousand sets of eyes alighted on Iker.
Unai follows him off the pitch after practice, falls right into step with Iker. Iker pulls his jersey over his head, keeps walking. Sergio is already halfway down the steps and into the tunnel, but turns when Iker calls his name.
“Keep up, grandpa,” Sergio shouts, not bothering to slow down. Unai snorts.
Iker kicks at the back of his knees and tells him to shut up.
//
Sometimes Iker forgets that Unai isn’t ten anymore. He isn’t shopping around for hamsters these days.
Things have evolved: Unai holding the television remote has become Unai holding a beer. Unai sitting at the kitchen counter has become Unai sitting on a barstool.
Iker is on his fourth or fifth beer when Marcelo elbows him accidentally, gesticulating wildly while telling a story. Iker turns away from the conversation he was having with Xabi - “I didn’t ask to be playing ping pong, you know? They put the paddle in my hand,” Xabi was confessing earnestly - to jab Marcelo in the shoulder, only to see Sergio and his little brother deep in conversation at the bar.
The barstools are higher than the chairs that rested against the kitchen counter in their childhood home.
Sergio is saying something important; Iker recognizes his wide eyes, the stab of his finger at a torn up napkin on the bar. Unai nods over and over again. He keeps opening his mouth to speak when Sergio pauses, but eats his words when his companion continues. Iker smiles weakly, confused. He wonders if he’s seeing things.
Xabi leans into his back, placing a hand on Iker’s shoulder. Iker tenses as Sergio reaches out, pointing a finger at the middle of Unai’s face. “Do they know each other?” Xabi asks.
“Not too well. I thought,” Iker says awkwardly.
“He’s a midfielder. He should be talking to me,” Xabi notes sarcastically.
Iker’s shoulders relax just as Unai throws his head back, laughing.
//
Iker spends Friday afternoon with his family. They have lunch at home and his mom busies herself with inane things while Iker, Unai, and their father watch a stupid game show on television. It’s American and nonsensical - there’s stupid little games and a giant wheel and a fat guy with a long microphone. Nothing about it is funny, except for maybe the fat guy’s glasses.
Iker’s father asks Unai what the fat guy is getting so excited about - Iker wonders why stacked washer-dryer combos still exist and why giving one away as a prize would be so enthralling - but Unai doesn’t answer. He’s absolutely engrossed in his phone. Iker watches him scroll through a message, laugh to himself, and type out a response.
“What’s so amusing?” Iker asks unenthusiastically. He doesn’t like to text.
Unai looks up. “Nothing.”
“Who are you texting?”
“No one.”
Iker scoffs. “That’s cool, Unai.”
Unai looks at him blankly. He’s trying to think of something to appease Iker, to get him to stop asking questions. “It’s a friend.”
“Okay."
Unai gets up, heads towards the back of the house. Ten minutes later, he walks through the room wearing his coat. Iker can hear his keys jingling as he heads for the front door.
“Sergio says hi,” Unai says over his shoulder. The door swings shut.
//
Iker keeps finding Unai in weird places. Leaning on a pool cue in the game room, watching tape is the video room, in the tiny alcove between the vending machines and the bathroom. It's almost as if he knows the Bernabeu better than Iker does. Iker will leave him on the field and find him leaning over the pool table ten minutes later. He starts to think that Unai is using secret passages or teleporting around the stadium.
Once, he loses Unai completely, finds him hours later drilling balls into the back of the net with Iker's defenders. The pitch is almost dark, but Iker can see Sergio juggling a ball distractedly while lecturing Unai. Alvaro and Raul are literally wrestling behind the net, yelling and kicking at each other. Sergio points at the goal while giving Iker's brother directions, ignoring his teammates until they decide to leave each other alone. Raul kicks the ball that was sitting at his feet toward Sergio, but Sergio just lets it bounce off his shin. He screams something uncomplimentary back to the other two and Unai laughs loudly, Iker watching from afar.
//
Iker calls him from the parking garage after the next match. He’s just about to hang up when Unai answers.
“Did you fucking leave?” Iker asks, not meaning to sound so scathing.
“I just, I. Forgot I had plans.”
Iker sighs. “You really think I can’t tell when you’re lying.”
“I forgot I had plans.”
//
Iker is the last one in the locker room after practice because he can’t find his watch. He’s pretty sure it’s somewhere in this locker room, and he’s determined to find it. He has a lot of watches, but this one is his favorite. He’s going to find this watch.
He’s pulling socks and boots and clothes he didn’t even know he still had out of his locker, wondering if it fell off the hook and got lost in the mess. He sighs, turning around to pick up the pile of shit and shove it back into the stall. Maybe he left it in his car.
As he’s turning to leave, a glint of something shiny catches his eye from under the bench. He looks down, but quickly looks off toward the hallway as he hears a loud thump. He looks down again, hoping he dropped his watch and it rolled away or something, but instead it’s a belt. A belt with a really familiar buckle.
He’s really hoping none of his teammates own the same belt as his little brother, because it’s awful enough to see that warped, chrome monstrosity in his own home. Unai told him it was an anchor or some shit, but it’s really just a unsightly twist of metal. He hates that fucking belt. As he’s picking it up off the floor, he looks closer.
There’s a homemade hole, added because the belt was too big for whoever originally bought it. Someone must have sunk a nail or a pen through the leather so the person could make it even tighter.
Iker remembers stabbing at this belt with a safety pin, scissors, and finally a kitchen knife, working to stretch the hole big enough so little Unai could cinch this fucking ugly thing around his hips when he was sixteen or seventeen, thin as a rail.
He looks around the room, and there’s a pair of sneakers that don’t belong to Sergio sitting in front of his locker.
He hears the thump again, from the direction of the hallway.
Iker slowly heads down the hall, towards the showers. With every step he’s hoping he doesn’t hear running water, but soon he’s too close. He can hear the spray of the shower and low voices. He peers around the corner.
His little brother has his palms flat against the wall of the shower, back sloping and stretched, feet spread apart and planted. His head is hanging between his arms, fallen against his chest, rivulets of water running down his legs.
The lean, tanned body behind him, rocking against Unai, belongs to Sergio Ramos.
Stunned into silence, Iker just stares, watching his teammate pushing up against his brother, fucking him slowly. Sergio is gripping Unai’s hip with one hand and reaching around their bodies with the other, below, out of Iker’s view. Unai is panting quietly, body almost perfectly still. Sergio continues to thrust, rocking on the balls of his feet - almost gliding, Iker thinks.
When Sergio pushes in with a particular sharpness Unai breathes in, slamming his fist into the wall heavily. Their movements are so slow. The shower is hitting Sergio in the chest and splashing over Unai, his back flushed and red. Neither of them speak, but Iker can tell that Sergio is losing control by the way his knees lock, the way he struggles to remain standing.
Sergio runs his hand from Unai's hip up across his back and onto his shoulder, pulling him back as he pushes in again. A small noise escapes from Unai's throat, almost inaudible over the sound of the water. Sergio pushes in as far as he can go and pauses, his hand squeezing Unai's shoulder, the skin under his fingers going white. Sergio's head falls back, neck loose.
Unai says Sergio’s name quietly.
Iker turns and leaves.
//
“You were there? You watched?”
“I didn’t watch, Unai, I - ”
“You fucking watched!”
“I did not watch, Unai, because, as weird as this may sound, I have the fucking right to be in those showers. Unlike you.”
“… I had the right.”
“Getting fucked by someone who has the right doesn’t give you the right.”
“That’s not even funny.”
“Because I’m really trying to be funny right now, Unai.”
“Stop saying my name.”
“Unai.”
“Stop saying my name like that.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“Not that long.”
“How long is ‘not that long’”?
“Less than a month.”
“Unai.”
“Less than two months.”
“I can’t fucking believe this.”
“What?”
“This!”
“What?”
“He’s just … he’s Sergio Ramos, Unai. I don’t want him to fuck you up.”
“I really like him.”
“I don’t want him to fuck you up.”
“You’ve gotta have some faith, Iker. He told me he’s not seeing that freckle-faced douchebag anymore. And he doesn’t even see girls that often, either. I trust him.”
“Really?”
“I do.”
“I trust you, then.”
“No you don’t.”
“I do.”
“Alright.”
“I really don’t want to see you fucking in our showers again, though.”
“He’s just so good, Iker, sometimes it’s just … he does this thing with his - ”
“I don’t want to see it. Or hear it. Or hear about it.”
“…fine.”
//
This time, Iker walks out to the parking garage with Unai. As he’s opening his door, Sergio appears.
“Get out of here, man,” Iker says, but it’s good-natured. Sergio smiles but doesn’t laugh - doesn’t want to push the older brother too far, after all - and sidles up next to Unai. Iker can’t see over the car, but he’s pretty sure Sergio’s hand is resting on Unai’s hip. He images Sergio Ramos’ finger slid through his brother’s belt loop, like this is a scene from the end of a romantic comedy. He tries not to gag.
Sergio turns from Unai to face Iker. “Do you guys want to go out for dinner?” he asks, addressing them both. “My treat.”
Unai looks at Iker before answering. He can read Iker’s poker face. (His jaw would be set more tightly if he was hesitant; his eyes would be smaller and darker if he was angry.) “I’m down.”
“Why don’t you just come over? I’ll cook.” Unai snorts at Iker’s offer. “I can cook, Unai. I’m not you.”
“I like that idea,” Sergio says. “I’ll follow you home.” He kisses Unai quickly on the forehead, pushes him lightly as he turns to walk away. “Better be good, Iker.”
“You can go fuck yourself, Ramos.”
Unai laughs. Iker grimaces.
"Ew."
Author's notes:
- My Unai was built from an interview or two and various blog posts. I apologize.
- I tried to avoid creepy, voyeur!Iker. It is up to you, glorious readers, to let me know if I succeeded!
- Factual inaccuracies are either purposeful or blatant ignorance. (What? Training doesn't take place at the Bernabeu? I CAN'T HEAR YOU.)
- Title and cut text taken from Under Cover of Darkness by The Strokes, which is so ace I can't even put it into words.
- Since the prompt is from footballkink, anon commenting is on!
Iker appreciates you.