Fic: Who They Are and Who They’re Not
Title: Who They Are and Who They’re Not
Author: firetruckyouxx
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1617
Pairings, Characters: Cesc Fàbregas/Robin van Persie
Genre/Warnings: Angst (with a happy ending), swearing, implied sex
Summary: They might be different than who they were four years ago, but they’re still the same people.
Author's Note: For fc_smorgasbord's challenge. The prompt: When love turns to hate.
“So, Chelsea, huh?” Robin says into the phone, because what else is he supposed to say? “Yeah, the Arsenal fans hate me, too, so I know exactly how you feel right now?” Probably not the best choice.
“Yup, Chelsea blue,” Cesc replies, his accent stronger than Robin is used to with all the vowels round and strung out. Maybe it’s because he hasn’t spoken proper English in a while; the need was never really there after the move back to Barcelona.
There’s a silence that falls between them and then, “They hate me,” says Cesc, his voice a bit hysterical and Robin doesn’t even have to ask who “they” are because he knows, he knows so goddamn well. “I'm such a fucking hypocrite. I can’t even look into the fucking mirror without being disgusted anymore for fuck’s sake.”
Robin cannot decide whether this conversation is better to have in person or over the phone, whether it’s better to feel attached again or keep it as impersonal as ever. He keeps his mouth shut though, and just listens to Cesc ramble.
His laugh is a little hysterical and a lot bitter. “Did you hear? They took the banner in Emirates of me down, like I’m just another bad memory that they want to forget. Like I’m fucking Ashley Cole, or something.” Cesc sighs shakily. “I guess I am, though. I did the same thing as him, didn’t I?”
Robin can feel the frustration take over his body, suddenly sick of Cesc’s words, sick that Cesc is saying them, of all people. “You are not like Cole,” Robin insists, his voice hard and unforgiving. “You are nothing like Ashley Cole so just shut up, okay?”
Cesc barked out a self-decrepitating laugh. “I promised them I would never play for another Premier League team again and what do I do? I go to fucking Chelsea, that’s what I do, so don’t tell me I’m not like Cole because that is exactly who I am, whether you like it or not.”
“So I guess that makes me Ashley Cole as well, then.” It might be a low blow but Cesc won’t listen to him.
Cesc shakes his head and rubs a hand across his weary face. “No. You didn’t promise shit that you couldn’t deliver. You didn't say the bullshit I spouted to the fans.” He scrolls through his Twitter feed again and lets out a pathetic sob. "They're sending me death threats, you know? 'Traitor, Die you fucking bastard,’ they say. Oh, look, ‘Ashley Cole: Part II.’ Even they know it, too.”
Robin tries hard not to roll his eyes. “They know it because they are who gave you the damn idea in the first place, you neuker.”
“Swearing at me in Dutch won't help, will it?” Cesc retorts sarcastically and Robin can feel a slight smirk twitch on his lips.
“No, I guess it won’t,” he replies. “But subjecting yourself to that hate won't help you, either. The contract is done, you’ve already signed it and the deal is done. There's nothing that you or the fucking gunners can do about it, no?”
Cesc sighs once more and Robin is getting pretty tired of hearing it. Cesc never used to sigh. He used to laugh manically or swear loudly, always full of life and flair, never willing to back down. He never was exhausted, never accepted defeat lying down. Robin finds himself wondering when they got so old.
“You’re here, right? In London, I mean,” Robin suddenly finds himself asking. He has no control over his words or thoughts; he feels completely detached from reality, the feeling of realizing that he’s getting old hitting him like a truck.
“Um, yeah, still moving into my apartment, but yeah. Why?” He sounds like a mix between bemused and suspicious. “Robin, what’s up?”
“Nothing, just…What is your new address?”
•-•
It’s a stupid fucking idea but Robin’s already way in over his head as it is so there is no point of stopping now. Before he knows it, he’s parking his car on a street in front of Cesc’s new townhouse in a beautiful part of London. One of the dumbest things he’s done is his life, even stupider than letting his temper get the best of him when he was younger, is ring the goddamn doorbell.
Cesc opens the door, bemused, and all the feelings Robin thought he had buried rushed back and like a possessed man, he pushes Cesc inside and begins kissing him, rough and reckless, like they did back when they were younger and naïve. Cesc kisses him back, matching his fiercity but then pushes him away.
“Robin, what the fuck?” Cesc demands, his face burning red hot as he involuntarily lifts his fingers to brush over his lips.
“Sorry, I just…I don’t know what came over me, sorry.” He combs his fingers through his hair and absently thinks he should cut it soon; it is getting a bit longer than he liked. He’ll make an appointment when he gets back home, he thinks.
“You can’t just show up and kiss me! We haven’t done that in years, in case you forgot,” Cesc reminds him, his tone venomous and Robin feels guilt overwhelm him because oh, yeah they’re both in serious relationship with other people. Right. He forgot about that.
“Shit, I…I’m sorry, Cesc, just for a moment, it felt like…” Robin trails off because it hurts so damn much to think about the old days, about when it was the two of the against the world. Those times are gone and it fucking hurt like hell. It was like a knife that was permantely stuck into his heart. If he moves even slightly, jerks around a bit, the pain comes back, reminding him of it. But, if he holds still, he can breathe easier and sometimes pretend that it’s not there.
“Like it was the old days,” Cesc finishes, his eyes downcast and he just understands because it’s him, too, and it strikes a cord in Robin’s heart, and suddenly he’s on Cesc again.
This time, however, Cesc doesn’t pull away.
Later, when they’re lying naked in Cesc’s new bed (“Just came today,” Cesc laughed as Robin struggled to undo his belt, clearly out of practice), Robin asks quietly, “Why Chelsea? Why not Manchester United?”
Cesc shrugs, his shoulder bumping against Robin’s chest. “It seemed like the smartest move, I think. Or, at least that’s what my agent told me.” He nuzzles his face more into Robin’s tanned neck. “Brazil was good for your skin,” he remarks. “Not as white as you were before.”
Robin chuckles. “Are you already mourning the loss of your Spanish tan, little Francesc?”
Cesc groans. “I’m going to be as white as you again. Things can’t get any worse,” he says dramatically, waving his hands around and accidentally hits Robin in the face a couple of times.
As their chuckles faded away, a comfortable silence falls over them and Robin can’t help but wish that they were back in the Arsenal days, when they would lay around on off days, watching old movies and have lazy sex on Robin’s couch. Sometimes, Robin would teach Cesc some Dutch, and in return, a mix of Spanish and his favored Catalan would roll off Cesc’s tongue, smiling lazily as he rambled in his native languages.
Robin mourns the loss of those days, hates being old. Words of the past are heavy on his tongue, begging to be released but instead, he says, “How are you going deal with Mourinho as your coach, anyway?”
Cesc laughs quietly, not old and jovial like it was before. Robin doesn’t know which one he prefers more. “The Culé part of me is dying inside, if I’m honest, but if Torres can deal with him, so can I.”
Robin hums and runs the pad of his thumb along where the back of Cesc’s hairline and his neck meet. Cesc squirms a little bit and the ghost of a smile plays on Robin’s lips because even if they are different than who they were four years ago, they still are the same people.
“I love you, still,” Robin blurts accidentally. Both of them freeze, eyes on each other, and even Robin’s Brazilian ran couldn’t hide the bright pink blush that floods his cheeks.
“I know,” Cesc whispers back so quietly that Robin barely hears him and rolls out of bed. Robin stares at his naked back, runs his eyes over the muscular, tan body that was at one time, his. Robin knows that was no longer the case.
Cesc puts his boxers back on and itches his beard absent-mindedly. “Chinese?” he asks, still not looking at Robin as he walks into the bathroom and turns the shower on but doesn’t shut the door.
Robin doesn’t know why but he replies, “Sure.” He doesn’t know when he became a masochist. “Where’s the menu?”
“On the kitchen counter, I think,” Cesc replies, his voice muffled. Robins nods even though he knows Cesc can’t see him and goes to retrieve it but Cesc is shouting, “Shower first, though, what are you even doing? I know you’re gray but you’re not that old.”
So, maybe not everything has changed, Robin thinks as he moves back towards the bathroom. And maybe he’s not that old, he thinks as he sees Cesc standing there up the spray with a wicked grin, wet and naked, and Robin suddenly feels he’s twenty-one again, naïve and enamored by a small Spanish boy with a cheerful smile and a too-loud laugh.
They might be different than who they were four years ago, but they’re still the same people.
Author: firetruckyouxx
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1617
Pairings, Characters: Cesc Fàbregas/Robin van Persie
Genre/Warnings: Angst (with a happy ending), swearing, implied sex
Summary: They might be different than who they were four years ago, but they’re still the same people.
Author's Note: For fc_smorgasbord's challenge. The prompt: When love turns to hate.
“So, Chelsea, huh?” Robin says into the phone, because what else is he supposed to say? “Yeah, the Arsenal fans hate me, too, so I know exactly how you feel right now?” Probably not the best choice.
“Yup, Chelsea blue,” Cesc replies, his accent stronger than Robin is used to with all the vowels round and strung out. Maybe it’s because he hasn’t spoken proper English in a while; the need was never really there after the move back to Barcelona.
There’s a silence that falls between them and then, “They hate me,” says Cesc, his voice a bit hysterical and Robin doesn’t even have to ask who “they” are because he knows, he knows so goddamn well. “I'm such a fucking hypocrite. I can’t even look into the fucking mirror without being disgusted anymore for fuck’s sake.”
Robin cannot decide whether this conversation is better to have in person or over the phone, whether it’s better to feel attached again or keep it as impersonal as ever. He keeps his mouth shut though, and just listens to Cesc ramble.
His laugh is a little hysterical and a lot bitter. “Did you hear? They took the banner in Emirates of me down, like I’m just another bad memory that they want to forget. Like I’m fucking Ashley Cole, or something.” Cesc sighs shakily. “I guess I am, though. I did the same thing as him, didn’t I?”
Robin can feel the frustration take over his body, suddenly sick of Cesc’s words, sick that Cesc is saying them, of all people. “You are not like Cole,” Robin insists, his voice hard and unforgiving. “You are nothing like Ashley Cole so just shut up, okay?”
Cesc barked out a self-decrepitating laugh. “I promised them I would never play for another Premier League team again and what do I do? I go to fucking Chelsea, that’s what I do, so don’t tell me I’m not like Cole because that is exactly who I am, whether you like it or not.”
“So I guess that makes me Ashley Cole as well, then.” It might be a low blow but Cesc won’t listen to him.
Cesc shakes his head and rubs a hand across his weary face. “No. You didn’t promise shit that you couldn’t deliver. You didn't say the bullshit I spouted to the fans.” He scrolls through his Twitter feed again and lets out a pathetic sob. "They're sending me death threats, you know? 'Traitor, Die you fucking bastard,’ they say. Oh, look, ‘Ashley Cole: Part II.’ Even they know it, too.”
Robin tries hard not to roll his eyes. “They know it because they are who gave you the damn idea in the first place, you neuker.”
“Swearing at me in Dutch won't help, will it?” Cesc retorts sarcastically and Robin can feel a slight smirk twitch on his lips.
“No, I guess it won’t,” he replies. “But subjecting yourself to that hate won't help you, either. The contract is done, you’ve already signed it and the deal is done. There's nothing that you or the fucking gunners can do about it, no?”
Cesc sighs once more and Robin is getting pretty tired of hearing it. Cesc never used to sigh. He used to laugh manically or swear loudly, always full of life and flair, never willing to back down. He never was exhausted, never accepted defeat lying down. Robin finds himself wondering when they got so old.
“You’re here, right? In London, I mean,” Robin suddenly finds himself asking. He has no control over his words or thoughts; he feels completely detached from reality, the feeling of realizing that he’s getting old hitting him like a truck.
“Um, yeah, still moving into my apartment, but yeah. Why?” He sounds like a mix between bemused and suspicious. “Robin, what’s up?”
“Nothing, just…What is your new address?”
•-•
It’s a stupid fucking idea but Robin’s already way in over his head as it is so there is no point of stopping now. Before he knows it, he’s parking his car on a street in front of Cesc’s new townhouse in a beautiful part of London. One of the dumbest things he’s done is his life, even stupider than letting his temper get the best of him when he was younger, is ring the goddamn doorbell.
Cesc opens the door, bemused, and all the feelings Robin thought he had buried rushed back and like a possessed man, he pushes Cesc inside and begins kissing him, rough and reckless, like they did back when they were younger and naïve. Cesc kisses him back, matching his fiercity but then pushes him away.
“Robin, what the fuck?” Cesc demands, his face burning red hot as he involuntarily lifts his fingers to brush over his lips.
“Sorry, I just…I don’t know what came over me, sorry.” He combs his fingers through his hair and absently thinks he should cut it soon; it is getting a bit longer than he liked. He’ll make an appointment when he gets back home, he thinks.
“You can’t just show up and kiss me! We haven’t done that in years, in case you forgot,” Cesc reminds him, his tone venomous and Robin feels guilt overwhelm him because oh, yeah they’re both in serious relationship with other people. Right. He forgot about that.
“Shit, I…I’m sorry, Cesc, just for a moment, it felt like…” Robin trails off because it hurts so damn much to think about the old days, about when it was the two of the against the world. Those times are gone and it fucking hurt like hell. It was like a knife that was permantely stuck into his heart. If he moves even slightly, jerks around a bit, the pain comes back, reminding him of it. But, if he holds still, he can breathe easier and sometimes pretend that it’s not there.
“Like it was the old days,” Cesc finishes, his eyes downcast and he just understands because it’s him, too, and it strikes a cord in Robin’s heart, and suddenly he’s on Cesc again.
This time, however, Cesc doesn’t pull away.
Later, when they’re lying naked in Cesc’s new bed (“Just came today,” Cesc laughed as Robin struggled to undo his belt, clearly out of practice), Robin asks quietly, “Why Chelsea? Why not Manchester United?”
Cesc shrugs, his shoulder bumping against Robin’s chest. “It seemed like the smartest move, I think. Or, at least that’s what my agent told me.” He nuzzles his face more into Robin’s tanned neck. “Brazil was good for your skin,” he remarks. “Not as white as you were before.”
Robin chuckles. “Are you already mourning the loss of your Spanish tan, little Francesc?”
Cesc groans. “I’m going to be as white as you again. Things can’t get any worse,” he says dramatically, waving his hands around and accidentally hits Robin in the face a couple of times.
As their chuckles faded away, a comfortable silence falls over them and Robin can’t help but wish that they were back in the Arsenal days, when they would lay around on off days, watching old movies and have lazy sex on Robin’s couch. Sometimes, Robin would teach Cesc some Dutch, and in return, a mix of Spanish and his favored Catalan would roll off Cesc’s tongue, smiling lazily as he rambled in his native languages.
Robin mourns the loss of those days, hates being old. Words of the past are heavy on his tongue, begging to be released but instead, he says, “How are you going deal with Mourinho as your coach, anyway?”
Cesc laughs quietly, not old and jovial like it was before. Robin doesn’t know which one he prefers more. “The Culé part of me is dying inside, if I’m honest, but if Torres can deal with him, so can I.”
Robin hums and runs the pad of his thumb along where the back of Cesc’s hairline and his neck meet. Cesc squirms a little bit and the ghost of a smile plays on Robin’s lips because even if they are different than who they were four years ago, they still are the same people.
“I love you, still,” Robin blurts accidentally. Both of them freeze, eyes on each other, and even Robin’s Brazilian ran couldn’t hide the bright pink blush that floods his cheeks.
“I know,” Cesc whispers back so quietly that Robin barely hears him and rolls out of bed. Robin stares at his naked back, runs his eyes over the muscular, tan body that was at one time, his. Robin knows that was no longer the case.
Cesc puts his boxers back on and itches his beard absent-mindedly. “Chinese?” he asks, still not looking at Robin as he walks into the bathroom and turns the shower on but doesn’t shut the door.
Robin doesn’t know why but he replies, “Sure.” He doesn’t know when he became a masochist. “Where’s the menu?”
“On the kitchen counter, I think,” Cesc replies, his voice muffled. Robins nods even though he knows Cesc can’t see him and goes to retrieve it but Cesc is shouting, “Shower first, though, what are you even doing? I know you’re gray but you’re not that old.”
So, maybe not everything has changed, Robin thinks as he moves back towards the bathroom. And maybe he’s not that old, he thinks as he sees Cesc standing there up the spray with a wicked grin, wet and naked, and Robin suddenly feels he’s twenty-one again, naïve and enamored by a small Spanish boy with a cheerful smile and a too-loud laugh.
They might be different than who they were four years ago, but they’re still the same people.