At Full Speed
By wintervixen86
The thing about Cristiano Ronaldo is... well. Gonzalo doesn’t really know what it is. He knows who he is, of course, but he knows Ronaldo in the same way he knows every other player in the league - in a methodical list of strengths and weaknesses. They have never spoken - or if they have then the conversation wasn’t memorable enough to warrant remembrance. They have never played a match together - or again, if they have then it isn’t a game that sticks out in Gonzalo’s mind. He has some vague recollections of interviews he has seen and articles he has read, but he has those of every player, not just the Manchester United turned Real Madrid winger.
As a matter of fact, standing here now in his fresh training uniform, Gonzalo is pretty sure that this is the first time he has ever even noticed Cristiano Ronaldo. He heard the rumours of his transfer of course, it was impossible not to - they had run rampant along the grapevine for months before the transfer was even confirmed. Then, of course, once the transfer was confirmed, all hell broke loose - Ronaldo had the whole of Madrid talking before he even stepped foot in the city, fuck, he probably had the whole world talking.
In the flesh, Cristiano Ronaldo is... well. Gonzalo doesn’t really know what he is. He expects Ronaldo to be focused, to work hard and to integrate himself into the team faster than most people would anticipate. Maybe he’ll wear freakishly gaudy watches, spend too much time on his hair, and have every female in a ten mile radius giggling hysterically at the mere mention of him. Gonzalo thinks that maybe they can get along in a ‘you pass to me, I pass to you, yay we scored’ kind of way. Or maybe they will hate each other in a ‘quit hogging the ball, you complete and utter dick’ kind of way. Gonzalo really isn’t too sure what to expect, so he just prepares for everything.
What he doesn’t anticipate is Ronaldo walking out onto the training grounds with a smile about six miles wide and a personality so damn vivacious that Gonzalo doesn’t even know what the heck he is looking at. Next thing he knows, the Portuguese is running alongside him, talking a mile a minute about the season ahead and all Gonzalo can think is that maybe he should have prepared a little better for this.
*
The floor boards are already warm under his feet when Gonzalo trots down the staircase with a slice of toast in one hand and his sneakers in the other. “You ready, Ezequiel?” he hollers, dropping his shoes and shoving his sock-less feet into them. He turns in a quick circle, spotting his training bag across the room and hurrying over to it.
“Shit... shit, hang on...”
The voice is hurried, frantic; verging on minor panic and Gonzalo gathers his stuff together, shoving everything haphazardly into his bag before straightening and wiping the sweat that is already pooling on his brow. Barely ten in the morning and it is already sweltering.
“Ten seconds,” Ezequiel calls his voice muffled. “Just let me find...” he breaks off and flies through the lounge room into the kitchen.
Gonzalo finishes his toast and wipes his hands on his shorts listening with half an ear as dishes and cutlery clatter in the kitchen. He takes the initiative to grab Ezequiel’s bag and locates his keys, shoes and wallet before scanning the room for his phone. “Where’s your phone?”
“On the charger, have you seen my keys?”
“I have them here.”
“Shit.” Ezequiel hurries out of the kitchen and bends down, pulling on his shoes. “Are we late?”
Gonzalo enjoys living with Ezequiel, but-
Fuck if he’s not the most disorganised guy he has ever met.
*
The most annoying thing is that Ronaldo’s Spanish is perfect. Gonzalo can deal with a lot of things: he can deal with Ronaldo’s tendency to show off when he has the ball, he can deal with his freakish ability to always find the back of the net, he can deal with his winning over every single one of his team mates, and he can accept that by the fourth day of training, Ronaldo is socialising and playing like he has been in Madrid for months.
He can deal with all of that.
What he can’t deal with is Ronaldo’s perfect grasp of the Spanish language. Because the thing is, everyone has a weakness; absolutely everybody should have at least one quality that they absolutely suck at. Take Benzema for example: his Spanish is appalling, almost nonexistent, and as a result the team bands together to make him feel as welcome as possible.
With Ronaldo... it’s impossible to try and make him feel welcome because there is no real need for it. The result is some weird sort of division, where players like Marcelo, Pepe and Kaka all unite in some strange Portuguese speaking cult, whilst everyone else stands on the sidelines trying to figure out how to react when Ronaldo bounds into their personal space and starts talking like there is nothing in the world he would rather be doing.
He is just too gregarious, too confident, too nonchalant, and too... hell, everything about him is excessive, from the gel in his hair to the ridiculous scarves he insists on wearing, even though it’s forty degrees outside and the whole country is baking.
*
“He’s weird.”
Gonzalo looks up from his lunge and frowns curiously at Gago. “Who?”
“Ronaldo.”
Gonzalo glances across the circle, eyes searching for the player in question, and spots him standing between Marcelo and Sergio. He doesn’t look weird; he looks just like everyone else. Perhaps a little quieter than normal, but the first match of the season is on the horizon and everyone is a little more focused - there is nothing strange about that. Gonzalo glances back to Gago. “Why?”
“After training yesterday, I got a phone call from my sister, so I left the locker room a little later than normal. I’m walking to my car and Ronaldo is out on the pitch, running.”
“Running?” Gonzalo repeats, confused. “What’s weird about that?”
“He was sprinting like the hounds of hell were after him. He just kept running and running and running even after all the laps we did in training.” Gago straightens and begins stretching out his hamstrings. “Iker says he arrives early in the morning and every time he gets here, Ronaldo is already out on the pitch ready to go. That’s a little strange, right? I mean, I’m all for working hard, but it’s kind of excessive.”
There’s that word again... excessive.
*
Gonzalo works with Benzema a lot, running and stretching and trying to develop their strike partnership. But it’s hard because Karim doesn’t speak Spanish and Gonzalo doesn’t speak French and it’s frustrating as hell trying to communicate when you don’t speak a common language. Pellegrini partners them together again and again, but they just can’t seem to link up. The ball will leave the back line, pass through midfield and find Karim without any problems, but somewhere between Karim’s passing and Gonzalo’s receiving they just... misunderstand each other.
They play a couple of training matches with dismal results and after two sessions, Pellegrini changes the formation and Gonzalo finds himself on a team with both Benzema and Ronaldo. It’s a test, Gonzalo knows, so when he receives the ball for the first time he hesitates, knowing that Benzema is open on his right and that Ronaldo is weaving around Sergio struggling to be open on his left. Gonzalo’s eyes flick quickly to Pellegrini and he knows he’s waiting for him to pass to Benzema, waiting for him to trust him, waiting for him to take that leap of faith and embrace the partnership. But he has never played on the same side as Ronaldo and he is curious, endlessly curious, so acting on instinct, he back passes to Ronaldo the second he breaks free of Sergio. And miraculously Ronaldo is there, receiving the ball smoothly and propelling it neatly passed Iker’s outstretched fingers and into the back of the net.
“That wasn’t the way it was supposed to go,” Ronaldo says as they walk back into position.
“I know.”
“Thanks for the trust.”
Gonzalo meets his eyes and nods.
*
The first match of the season is against Deportivo and Gonzalo is nervous because after all the work he has put in with Benzema, it’s Ronaldo who stands in the centre circle with him. He looks calm, bouncing on his toes, shaking out his legs and radiating so much energy that Gonzalo thinks he’s about to suffocate in it. And it’s strange, seeing the number nine emblazoned proudly across his jersey, standing with someone he barely knows. They haven’t prepared particularly well for this; Gonzalo still doesn’t know the first thing about Ronaldo as a strike partner. Heck, he doesn’t really know much about Ronaldo in general, but he looks shockingly confident, so Gonzalo takes comfort in that.
It’s barely twelve minutes in when the ball finds the back of the net, and the air is heavy and Gonzalo can’t breathe, but Cristiano is there, smiling and barreling into him. His arms are too tight and his breath is too fast and he is just so... excessive.
*
They sit together on the bus on the way home and Gonzalo expects Ronaldo to talk about the match and discuss tactics. Instead, Ronaldo talks about Portugal, running off an impressive monologue on his hometown and making obscure references to bands Gonzalo has never heard of. He asks too many questions and when he talks, he goes off on tangents and usually forgets to return to the original point. He laughs a lot and when he does, he laughs with his entire body.
“You’re not what I was expecting,” Gonzalo admits randomly as they cross into the city limits of Madrid.
“What were you expecting?” Ronaldo asks, leaning across Gonzalo to peer out the window.
Gonzalo eyes Ronaldo’s carefully tousled hair before nudging him out of his personal space. “I don’t know... someone normal?”
Ronaldo laughs like it’s a compliment.
*
Sergio invites him to lunch and Gonzalo isn’t surprised when he shows up to find Ronaldo there. Between them, Sergio and Ronaldo order half the menu and when Gago shows up half an hour later, he orders another ten percent. Somehow, they all end up in a bar downtown and Gonzalo decides that Ronaldo is infinitely more grabby than Sergio if that is at all possible. He just doesn’t seem to have any concept of personal space; Gonzalo loses track of how many times Ronaldo’s fingers graze across the back of his neck, of Sergio’s neck, of Gago’s neck and of any other neck that happens to stray a little too close - he has a complete and utter neck fetish. Gonzalo finds it vaguely disturbing.
“I’m not too sure,” Gago begins after they have had a couple of rounds, “but I think I just saw Ronaldo flirt with a girl, get caught out by her boyfriend, flirt with the boyfriend, and then walk away unscathed.”
Gonzalo glances across the room; Ronaldo is leaning across the bar, laughing with one of the bartenders. His jeans are too tight and half the room is staring, transfixed at his arse; the other half is blinded by the sheer amount of diamonds in his watch. Or perhaps they are just horrified to discover that his shoes, belt, watch and sunglasses are all perfectly matched.
“I think he likes the attention,” Sergio muses.
Gonzalo thinks that he’s probably right.
*
Gonzalo confiscates everyone’s keys and drives them home, dropping Gago and Sergio before following Ronaldo’s directions to a neighbourhood he has never seen before. Ronaldo’s house is large and Gonzalo agrees to come inside for a drink. The truth is that Ronaldo intimidates him a little. On the pitch and at training it’s easy because Ronaldo is one of them, but standing here in Ronaldo’s house where the paint is too fresh and the lights are too bright, Gonzalo feels impossibly awkward.
“Do you want a drink?”
“No thanks, I uh...”
Ronaldo presses a can of coke into his hand and Gonzalo reluctantly takes it, following Ronaldo out onto the back deck and tracing his eyes over the elegant furniture. It crosses his mind to say something polite like your house is nice or thanks for the drink but the words get stuck in the back of his throat and they sound ridiculous in his head anyway. So, Gonzalo takes the proffered seat and cracks open his can.
“You’re the first person I’ve actually had over here,” Ronaldo muses, stretching out his legs.
“Really?”
“Don’t feel too special. I don’t have a hidden agenda for you.”
It’s a weird thing to say and Gonzalo can’t think of a proper response so he just looks around and admits, “Your house is nice.”
Ronaldo wrinkles his nose. “It’s okay. It’s a bit big. Most of the time it feels like I’m in a huge empty tomb.”
“Why don’t you get a roommate?”
“I’d probably just end up killing them in their sleep. You live with Ezequiel, though, right?”
“In theory.”
“That’s too bad. We would have been pretty good roommates, don’t you think?”
Gonzalo almost chokes on his coke. “What?” he finally splutters.
Ronaldo’s eyes are innocent. “What? We would.”
There are splatters of coke on his jeans; Gonzalo wipes them away. “Why would you say that? We barely know each other.”
Ronaldo just shrugs. “You’re pretty to look at. Everything else would fall into place.” Gonzalo stares - it’s perhaps the most forward thing a guy has ever said to him - and Ronaldo laughs. “Relax. We’re friends right?”
“Right.” Gonzalo smiles.
It's the beginning of something. Gonzalo just doesn't know what it is.
Notes: Thanks to albion_lass for beta reading.
The thing about Cristiano Ronaldo is... well. Gonzalo doesn’t really know what it is. He knows who he is, of course, but he knows Ronaldo in the same way he knows every other player in the league - in a methodical list of strengths and weaknesses. They have never spoken - or if they have then the conversation wasn’t memorable enough to warrant remembrance. They have never played a match together - or again, if they have then it isn’t a game that sticks out in Gonzalo’s mind. He has some vague recollections of interviews he has seen and articles he has read, but he has those of every player, not just the Manchester United turned Real Madrid winger.
As a matter of fact, standing here now in his fresh training uniform, Gonzalo is pretty sure that this is the first time he has ever even noticed Cristiano Ronaldo. He heard the rumours of his transfer of course, it was impossible not to - they had run rampant along the grapevine for months before the transfer was even confirmed. Then, of course, once the transfer was confirmed, all hell broke loose - Ronaldo had the whole of Madrid talking before he even stepped foot in the city, fuck, he probably had the whole world talking.
In the flesh, Cristiano Ronaldo is... well. Gonzalo doesn’t really know what he is. He expects Ronaldo to be focused, to work hard and to integrate himself into the team faster than most people would anticipate. Maybe he’ll wear freakishly gaudy watches, spend too much time on his hair, and have every female in a ten mile radius giggling hysterically at the mere mention of him. Gonzalo thinks that maybe they can get along in a ‘you pass to me, I pass to you, yay we scored’ kind of way. Or maybe they will hate each other in a ‘quit hogging the ball, you complete and utter dick’ kind of way. Gonzalo really isn’t too sure what to expect, so he just prepares for everything.
What he doesn’t anticipate is Ronaldo walking out onto the training grounds with a smile about six miles wide and a personality so damn vivacious that Gonzalo doesn’t even know what the heck he is looking at. Next thing he knows, the Portuguese is running alongside him, talking a mile a minute about the season ahead and all Gonzalo can think is that maybe he should have prepared a little better for this.
*
The floor boards are already warm under his feet when Gonzalo trots down the staircase with a slice of toast in one hand and his sneakers in the other. “You ready, Ezequiel?” he hollers, dropping his shoes and shoving his sock-less feet into them. He turns in a quick circle, spotting his training bag across the room and hurrying over to it.
“Shit... shit, hang on...”
The voice is hurried, frantic; verging on minor panic and Gonzalo gathers his stuff together, shoving everything haphazardly into his bag before straightening and wiping the sweat that is already pooling on his brow. Barely ten in the morning and it is already sweltering.
“Ten seconds,” Ezequiel calls his voice muffled. “Just let me find...” he breaks off and flies through the lounge room into the kitchen.
Gonzalo finishes his toast and wipes his hands on his shorts listening with half an ear as dishes and cutlery clatter in the kitchen. He takes the initiative to grab Ezequiel’s bag and locates his keys, shoes and wallet before scanning the room for his phone. “Where’s your phone?”
“On the charger, have you seen my keys?”
“I have them here.”
“Shit.” Ezequiel hurries out of the kitchen and bends down, pulling on his shoes. “Are we late?”
Gonzalo enjoys living with Ezequiel, but-
Fuck if he’s not the most disorganised guy he has ever met.
*
The most annoying thing is that Ronaldo’s Spanish is perfect. Gonzalo can deal with a lot of things: he can deal with Ronaldo’s tendency to show off when he has the ball, he can deal with his freakish ability to always find the back of the net, he can deal with his winning over every single one of his team mates, and he can accept that by the fourth day of training, Ronaldo is socialising and playing like he has been in Madrid for months.
He can deal with all of that.
What he can’t deal with is Ronaldo’s perfect grasp of the Spanish language. Because the thing is, everyone has a weakness; absolutely everybody should have at least one quality that they absolutely suck at. Take Benzema for example: his Spanish is appalling, almost nonexistent, and as a result the team bands together to make him feel as welcome as possible.
With Ronaldo... it’s impossible to try and make him feel welcome because there is no real need for it. The result is some weird sort of division, where players like Marcelo, Pepe and Kaka all unite in some strange Portuguese speaking cult, whilst everyone else stands on the sidelines trying to figure out how to react when Ronaldo bounds into their personal space and starts talking like there is nothing in the world he would rather be doing.
He is just too gregarious, too confident, too nonchalant, and too... hell, everything about him is excessive, from the gel in his hair to the ridiculous scarves he insists on wearing, even though it’s forty degrees outside and the whole country is baking.
*
“He’s weird.”
Gonzalo looks up from his lunge and frowns curiously at Gago. “Who?”
“Ronaldo.”
Gonzalo glances across the circle, eyes searching for the player in question, and spots him standing between Marcelo and Sergio. He doesn’t look weird; he looks just like everyone else. Perhaps a little quieter than normal, but the first match of the season is on the horizon and everyone is a little more focused - there is nothing strange about that. Gonzalo glances back to Gago. “Why?”
“After training yesterday, I got a phone call from my sister, so I left the locker room a little later than normal. I’m walking to my car and Ronaldo is out on the pitch, running.”
“Running?” Gonzalo repeats, confused. “What’s weird about that?”
“He was sprinting like the hounds of hell were after him. He just kept running and running and running even after all the laps we did in training.” Gago straightens and begins stretching out his hamstrings. “Iker says he arrives early in the morning and every time he gets here, Ronaldo is already out on the pitch ready to go. That’s a little strange, right? I mean, I’m all for working hard, but it’s kind of excessive.”
There’s that word again... excessive.
*
Gonzalo works with Benzema a lot, running and stretching and trying to develop their strike partnership. But it’s hard because Karim doesn’t speak Spanish and Gonzalo doesn’t speak French and it’s frustrating as hell trying to communicate when you don’t speak a common language. Pellegrini partners them together again and again, but they just can’t seem to link up. The ball will leave the back line, pass through midfield and find Karim without any problems, but somewhere between Karim’s passing and Gonzalo’s receiving they just... misunderstand each other.
They play a couple of training matches with dismal results and after two sessions, Pellegrini changes the formation and Gonzalo finds himself on a team with both Benzema and Ronaldo. It’s a test, Gonzalo knows, so when he receives the ball for the first time he hesitates, knowing that Benzema is open on his right and that Ronaldo is weaving around Sergio struggling to be open on his left. Gonzalo’s eyes flick quickly to Pellegrini and he knows he’s waiting for him to pass to Benzema, waiting for him to trust him, waiting for him to take that leap of faith and embrace the partnership. But he has never played on the same side as Ronaldo and he is curious, endlessly curious, so acting on instinct, he back passes to Ronaldo the second he breaks free of Sergio. And miraculously Ronaldo is there, receiving the ball smoothly and propelling it neatly passed Iker’s outstretched fingers and into the back of the net.
“That wasn’t the way it was supposed to go,” Ronaldo says as they walk back into position.
“I know.”
“Thanks for the trust.”
Gonzalo meets his eyes and nods.
*
The first match of the season is against Deportivo and Gonzalo is nervous because after all the work he has put in with Benzema, it’s Ronaldo who stands in the centre circle with him. He looks calm, bouncing on his toes, shaking out his legs and radiating so much energy that Gonzalo thinks he’s about to suffocate in it. And it’s strange, seeing the number nine emblazoned proudly across his jersey, standing with someone he barely knows. They haven’t prepared particularly well for this; Gonzalo still doesn’t know the first thing about Ronaldo as a strike partner. Heck, he doesn’t really know much about Ronaldo in general, but he looks shockingly confident, so Gonzalo takes comfort in that.
It’s barely twelve minutes in when the ball finds the back of the net, and the air is heavy and Gonzalo can’t breathe, but Cristiano is there, smiling and barreling into him. His arms are too tight and his breath is too fast and he is just so... excessive.
*
They sit together on the bus on the way home and Gonzalo expects Ronaldo to talk about the match and discuss tactics. Instead, Ronaldo talks about Portugal, running off an impressive monologue on his hometown and making obscure references to bands Gonzalo has never heard of. He asks too many questions and when he talks, he goes off on tangents and usually forgets to return to the original point. He laughs a lot and when he does, he laughs with his entire body.
“You’re not what I was expecting,” Gonzalo admits randomly as they cross into the city limits of Madrid.
“What were you expecting?” Ronaldo asks, leaning across Gonzalo to peer out the window.
Gonzalo eyes Ronaldo’s carefully tousled hair before nudging him out of his personal space. “I don’t know... someone normal?”
Ronaldo laughs like it’s a compliment.
*
Sergio invites him to lunch and Gonzalo isn’t surprised when he shows up to find Ronaldo there. Between them, Sergio and Ronaldo order half the menu and when Gago shows up half an hour later, he orders another ten percent. Somehow, they all end up in a bar downtown and Gonzalo decides that Ronaldo is infinitely more grabby than Sergio if that is at all possible. He just doesn’t seem to have any concept of personal space; Gonzalo loses track of how many times Ronaldo’s fingers graze across the back of his neck, of Sergio’s neck, of Gago’s neck and of any other neck that happens to stray a little too close - he has a complete and utter neck fetish. Gonzalo finds it vaguely disturbing.
“I’m not too sure,” Gago begins after they have had a couple of rounds, “but I think I just saw Ronaldo flirt with a girl, get caught out by her boyfriend, flirt with the boyfriend, and then walk away unscathed.”
Gonzalo glances across the room; Ronaldo is leaning across the bar, laughing with one of the bartenders. His jeans are too tight and half the room is staring, transfixed at his arse; the other half is blinded by the sheer amount of diamonds in his watch. Or perhaps they are just horrified to discover that his shoes, belt, watch and sunglasses are all perfectly matched.
“I think he likes the attention,” Sergio muses.
Gonzalo thinks that he’s probably right.
*
Gonzalo confiscates everyone’s keys and drives them home, dropping Gago and Sergio before following Ronaldo’s directions to a neighbourhood he has never seen before. Ronaldo’s house is large and Gonzalo agrees to come inside for a drink. The truth is that Ronaldo intimidates him a little. On the pitch and at training it’s easy because Ronaldo is one of them, but standing here in Ronaldo’s house where the paint is too fresh and the lights are too bright, Gonzalo feels impossibly awkward.
“Do you want a drink?”
“No thanks, I uh...”
Ronaldo presses a can of coke into his hand and Gonzalo reluctantly takes it, following Ronaldo out onto the back deck and tracing his eyes over the elegant furniture. It crosses his mind to say something polite like your house is nice or thanks for the drink but the words get stuck in the back of his throat and they sound ridiculous in his head anyway. So, Gonzalo takes the proffered seat and cracks open his can.
“You’re the first person I’ve actually had over here,” Ronaldo muses, stretching out his legs.
“Really?”
“Don’t feel too special. I don’t have a hidden agenda for you.”
It’s a weird thing to say and Gonzalo can’t think of a proper response so he just looks around and admits, “Your house is nice.”
Ronaldo wrinkles his nose. “It’s okay. It’s a bit big. Most of the time it feels like I’m in a huge empty tomb.”
“Why don’t you get a roommate?”
“I’d probably just end up killing them in their sleep. You live with Ezequiel, though, right?”
“In theory.”
“That’s too bad. We would have been pretty good roommates, don’t you think?”
Gonzalo almost chokes on his coke. “What?” he finally splutters.
Ronaldo’s eyes are innocent. “What? We would.”
There are splatters of coke on his jeans; Gonzalo wipes them away. “Why would you say that? We barely know each other.”
Ronaldo just shrugs. “You’re pretty to look at. Everything else would fall into place.” Gonzalo stares - it’s perhaps the most forward thing a guy has ever said to him - and Ronaldo laughs. “Relax. We’re friends right?”
“Right.” Gonzalo smiles.
It's the beginning of something. Gonzalo just doesn't know what it is.
Notes: Thanks to albion_lass for beta reading.