i was meant to make you smile
title i was meant to make you smile
word count 3,878
pairing gonzalo higuain/sergio ramos
summary gonzalo believes in fate, or, sergio isn't as clueless as gonzalo thinks he is
rating nc-17 (i know, crazy, right?)
notes so a while ago there was a conversation over at ramos_fans and someone said there should be more gonzalo/sergio fic around. it took me a bit, but here's some gonzalo/sergio, because the pairing just stuck in my head ever since!
The locker room isn’t one of Gonzalo’s favorite places. It’s too loud, or too quiet, alternatively, and too crowded, even though in theory they all have plenty of personal space. The problem is really more that certain people don’t believe in personal space. Gonzalo remembers when Beckham was always invading Iker’s space, even though he was only there for a year before the Englishman left. Glancing over, he sees that Iker still sequesters himself in a corner, his face a blank mask.
It makes Gonzalo a little sad as he laces up his boots, to see Iker still so quiet, but. Gonzalo believes in fate, believes in fate as a reckless, dramatic, inconvenient, unshakable force of life, and so he figures there was a reason Becks left, just like there’s a reason Iker hasn’t cuddled up to anyone else.
“Hey, sorry,” Sergio says, tripping over Gonzalo’s legs a little as he sits down on the bench, and Gonzalo looks over at him and Sergio’s hand is still on his thigh, where the defender put it to steady himself.
It stays there until Pellegrini comes in to get them all onto the field, and Gonzalo tries not to think too hard about it, but he can’t help it- it feels like something slid into place, but he isn’t sure what, he just knows that it was-
Fate.
--
After that, Gonzalo is hyper-aware of Sergio. Not only of where he is on the pitch, in a purely professional, I-am-a-footballer-and-I-will-pass-to-my-best-friend-for-whom-I-may-have-feelings sort of way, but also when they’re showering, in the parking lot, when the entire team is surrounding him to congratulate his most recent hat trick. He can always reach out in the huddle and find Sergio, and he always does, lets his fingers linger on the defender’s forearm, or ruffles his hair in what he hopes is a teasing, friendly gesture.
And the way Sergio always does his warm up laps running right alongside Gonzalo, the way they juggle the ball around for a bit before practice really kicks off, the way they share raised eyebrows and ironic glances when Iker’s being grumpy or Cris says something stupid, well.
Gonzalo doesn’t like to admit that he sometimes looks at the training pictures on the Real Madrid website, but he’s kind of glad that someone’s taking picture of him and Sergio. That he isn’t imagining the arm slung heavy over his shoulders when they walk off the pitch, of the extra-bright smile aimed at him when the whole team is just messing around.
He’s kind of glad because he can look at those pictures and pretend that maybe it’s all real.
--
They have a routine, Gonzalo and Sergio. Gonzalo goes to Sergio’s after every match, and they share a six-pack, and watch shitty highlight reels of whatever games not their own that happened over the weekend. Sometimes they play ProEvo, and more often than not Gonzalo ends up spending the night, too tired to haul himself off of Sergio’s too-large sofa.
It’s a nice routine, all in all, and if Gonzalo sometimes wakes up on the couch and wishes he was waking up in Sergio’s bed, well, he can deal with that.
--
“’S a little stronger than usual,” Gonzalo remarks drily when Sergio opens the door to his house holding a bottle of tequila instead of the usual six-pack.
“This one hurt a little more than usual,” Sergio replies. Gonzalo shrugs and comes in the door, throwing his jacket off and accepting the shot glass Sergio offers.
“Salud,” he says, and Sergio echoes him. Their eyes meet right before Gonzalo throws the shot back, and when he does, he’s grateful to the burn of the alcohol for distracting him from the dark of Sergio’s eyes.
--
A few hours later, Gonzalo’s sprawled on Sergio’s couch, trying to flip over one of the throw pillows with his big toe. They’ve long since turned off the TV, unable to bear the constant Champions League talk with any grace, and instead got steadily and steadily drunker. Or at least, Gonzalo got steadily and steadily drunker. He isn’t exactly sure about Sergio.
He is sure that he’ll be staying over tonight, though.
“You trying to get me drunk?”
It takes Gonzalo a minute to realize he is the one who asked the question. When he does, his eyes go big and his lips purse a little, and he probably looks like someone’s grandmother. He can taste the tequila in the back of his throat and he concentrates on that. Concentrates on anything except Sergio.
“I think you got there without my help,” the Sevillan chuckles. Gonzalo nods in affirmation. “But would it have worked if I was?”
Gonzalo isn’t sure how to answer that. He’s fairly certain that telling Sergio he wouldn’t have to be drunk for whatever Sergio seems to have in mind isn’t the right way to go so he just-
Doesn’t answer.
--
He wakes up with the throw pillow tucked under his cheek and one of Sergio’s silk fleece blankets awkwardly, but sweetly, draped over his body. It’s kind of falling off of his hip, clinging futilely to the curve of his ass, and when Gonzalo wiggles a little, it slides to the ground. He groans. His mouth feels like cotton and he’s pretty sure he drooled all over Sergio’s pillow.
“Alive?”
Gonzalo tries to sit up and fails. Sergio’s voice is coming from somewhere near the kitchen, so Gonzalo settles for letting his arm flop over the back of the couch and trying to move his fingers in some kind of affirmative gesture. He isn’t sure if it works so he tries to clear his throat and speak.
“No,” he says, and despite his best efforts, it comes out as more of a croak than anything else.
“Well then, I’ll assume you don’t want any coffee? Or any of this omelet?”
Gonzalo almost kills himself trying to flop off of the couch and into the kitchen. He feels like a fish must, right when it’s tugged out of the water, before it’s dead but still flailing aimlessly, trying to return to its normal environment.
“You didn’t say anything about food,” he grumbles, and Sergio grins, pushes a plate towards him.
--
Sometimes, they hang out when it’s not after a game. Sometimes, Gonzalo follows Sergio’s car out of the parking lot and they go to lunch, at the Argentine place Gonzalo loves, where the owners treat him like their long lost son and always give him free appetizers. And then Gonzalo follows Sergio back to his house and they kill time, playing ProEvo and fighting over who gets to be Real Madrid. Sometimes Gonzalo accepts defeat and plays as River Plate, and makes Sergio laugh as he talks about Argentina, the crazy shit his old club used to get up to. Sometimes he tells kind of mean stories about Gago but Sergio laughs anyway.
It’s- nice. It almost doesn’t matter that Gonzalo can’t shake the feeling Sergio gives him, that everything just fits. Somehow, he can’t bring himself to care.
--
Sergio’s smoking.
It’s a rare week without a match, but Sergio doesn’t smoke anyway, so Gonzalo takes a minute to be confused before turning back to his beer, working his way through a fourth bottle, then a fifth. Then he looks back up at Sergio, who’s still working on the same cigarette and slowly breathing out the smoke, letting the ribbons curl up towards the ceiling. Gonzalo wrinkles his nose at the smell but is transfixed by Sergio’s lips, the way they stick ever so slightly to the paper of the cigarette when he pulls it out of his mouth.
“You have a pretty mouth,” Gonzalo blurts out, and then claps a hand over his own mouth, feeling kind of like a cartoon character. His head is pleasantly fuzzy but not enough so that he isn’t embarrassed.
Sergio turns to him, lets his pretty lips curl into a smile. Gonzalo tries not to stare. He isn’t sure how well that goes.
“Why are you smoking?”
Sergio shrugs. “’Cause I never have before. Figured, why not now?”
They’re standing closer than Gonzalo remembers, their shoulders almost knocking as they loom over the kitchen counter. Gonzalo leans over to put his now-empty bottle in the sink and when he turns back-
Sergio’s eyes are big and dark and his lips are pink and the cigarette is gone, maybe stubbed out somewhere, Gonzalo isn’t really sure. He doesn’t care. Their foreheads touch and Gonzalo’s almost afraid to breathe.
“You have a pretty mouth, too,” Sergio tells him. Sergio’s thumb is suddenly at Gonzalo’s mouth, tracing the bow of his lips, the heel of his hand braced on Gonzalo’s chin. The tip of Gonzalo’s tongue slips out to taste Sergio, licking tentatively at the pad of his thumb, and he tastes salty, like sweat, but also kind of distinct, not like anyone else Gonzalo’s been with. It’s right, just like Sergio’s hand on his thigh in the locker room and the way Gonzalo always finds Sergio’s crosses into the box.
He hears someone breathe in a little too sharply, and he isn’t sure who it is. Gonzalo ponders for a minute, but then Sergio moves his hand, pulls his thumb away to stroke at Gonzalo’s cheekbone. They kiss then, and it’s not what Gonzalo imagined- he forgets to be embarrassed that yes, he imagines kissing Sergio. All the time. He’s okay with it.
It’s- chaste, just their lips sliding together, dry and chapped, until Sergio pulls back.
Gonzalo chases after him, licks his lips, meets Sergio’s eyes. He waits the split second for Sergio to nod, almost imperceptibly, before he kisses Sergio again, and it’s not so patient this time, Sergio’s thumb rubbing frantic circles against his cheek and Sergio’s tongue sliding out to swipe across Gonzalo’s lower lip. It’s hungry and a little desperate and heat pools in the pit of Gonzalo’s belly.
Sergio crowds him against the counter, and Gonzalo feels lightheaded, whether from the kisses or the beer or something else altogether, he doesn’t know. Sergio tastes faintly of smoke, but not as much as he should, Gonzalo thinks distantly, because he’s kissed people who smoke before, and it’s not like this. But he’s too dizzy to analyze it any further and Sergio’s tongue curls around his and he can’t breathe, his chest is closing up-
Gonzalo puts his hands solidly against Sergio’s broad chest and pushes the Sevillan back, gasping for air a little. He feels like a fish again, out of place, frantic. “Sorry, sorry,” he gasps out, pulling his hands back like he’s been burned. Sergio tilts his head, and Gonzalo can feel Sergio’s eyes raking over his body and it makes his skin prickle.
“It’s okay,” Sergio tells him quietly.
It’s not, and they both know it. And it isn’t because they’re friends, or because they’re teammates, or because Gonzalo isn’t even gay, because none of that matters, he knows this is right. He believes in fate and its fickle nature, striking at whim. Reckless, omnipotent fate. Gonzalo knows.
It’s because he doesn’t know how to do this without fucking it up, and Sergio is-
Sergio is more important that anything, and Gonzalo refuses to fuck it up.
--
Nothing is like before. Practice is as awkward as hell, and Gonzalo feels his cheeks flame up every time Sergio glances his way. He keeps his head down, runs too fast for Sergio to keep up, taking a place next to Cris instead and eventually Sergio stops trying to catch his eye.
--
Gonzalo isn’t exactly sure how things are going to go after their next game, but when it comes down to it, he’s feeling like a big fat coward, and he hates himself for it. So he leaves the locker room before he’s even showered, just putting on a pair of jeans and pulling off his jersey in favor of an old River Plate sweatshirt, and he stops by the liquor store to buy a case of beer.
He’s never felt quite as uncomfortable as he does, knocking on Sergio’s door and shuffling back and forth. He wishes he’d stopped to take a shower, because he’s got sweat dried to his skin and possibly some grass stains on his knees and it’s making him feel even more awkward.
But Sergio swings the door open, leans against it for a beat longer than he should, and then ushers Gonzalo into the house.
--
Sergio goes to sleep first, but tells Gonzalo he can stay as long as he wants, so Gonzalo makes himself comfortable on the couch. It’s almost like the past week hasn’t happened, if he pretends hard enough. He can hear Sergio in the shower, and then brushing his teeth, and maybe it’s a little weird that Gonzalo is keeping track of Sergio’s bedtime routine, but it’s also exactly what he used to do, so he’s okay with it.
--
Sergio cooks breakfast again, and afterwards Gonzalo isn’t really sure if he’s welcome to stick around, if maybe they’ll just spend the day together like they used to, or if he should just go.
“I should leave,” he says quietly, and he doesn’t mean it at all, he just says it to give Sergio an opening.
It doesn’t work.
“Okay,” Sergio replies, just as quiet, and Gonzalo deserves it, he knows he does, it’s karmic retribution, and while that’s not exactly fate, it’s related. So he puts his keys in his pocket and thanks Sergio for breakfast and goes.
--
The whole team goes to Guti’s restaurant the next night, and Gonzalo isn’t sure at all what they’re celebrating, but he doesn’t really care. He has a good contract and the food is good and the wine is maybe a little too good, and he’s a little surprised when he gets up to use the restroom and Iker follows him.
“Hey,” he says, a little confused, as the door swings shut.
“You should talk to him,” Iker says, his voice even. It isn’t his captain voice, so Gonzalo knows he doesn’t have to listen, it isn’t a requirement, but-
But Iker knows what he’s talking about, Gonzalo reminds himself. Iker knows what it’s like to be alone in the locker room and on the pitch and in a big empty house. Gonzalo wants to ask him, wants to know if there’s something he should’ve talked to Becks about, way back when, but Gonzalo knows he can’t. Iker’s past is his own. But maybe, he’s sharing with Gonzalo, a little bit. In his own way. In the way of goalkeepers, who spend their time staring contemplatively down the pitch and anticipating every possible move.
--
Sergio drives him home, and Gonzalo leans on him and follows him into the house -Sergio’s house, not Gonzalo’s house, he realizes too late- and his head hits a pillow, softer than the throw pillow he’s used to, and he’s pretty sure he tells Sergio he loves him before he passes out.
--
Gonzalo wakes up in a bed, not on the couch, so he was right last night, in his analysis of pillows. But Sergio isn’t in the bed with him, which is more than a little disappointing, all things considered. Gonzalo rolls over into the empty space where Sergio should be, presses his face back into the pillow, and falls asleep again.
--
Eventually, Gonzalo hauls himself up and out of bed. His limbs are heavy and tired and he feels like he could sleep for days, exhausted just from a conversation with Iker. He pads around Sergio’s house for a few minutes before finding Sergio, shaving. Gonzalo leans against the open bathroom door.
“I meant it,” he tells Sergio. His voice echoes around the room and he thinks his heartbeat does, too, thump thump thump and it’s terrifying. He waits for the inevitable explosion, and his heart is the time bomb, the minute Sergio’s eyes glaze over in anger and rejection he’ll just-
Explode.
But Sergio doesn’t turn around in anger. He just blinks a few times, finishes shaving, washes his face. When he finally turns to face Gonzalo, his eyes are soft and his mouth is relaxed. “What are you going to do about it, then?”
It’s not the reaction Gonzalo was expecting, not one bit. But he takes a step forward, then another, and he has to remind himself how to walk, because he feels like he just finished a match, exhausted and elated and high like he just ran hard for ninety minutes and scored three goals and he’s in that place where nothing can touch him.
Nothing except Sergio, so Gonzalo finishes walking and reaches out his hand to run his thumb over Sergio’s smooth cheek and brings their lips together. It’s careful, considered, and Sergio lets him. Gonzalo explores slowly, getting used to the press of lips and the heat of Sergio’s mouth and the taste of him and the smell of the shaving cream.
Then Sergio opens his mouth under Gonzalo’s, and his heart is beating like crazy again but he’s not a time bomb anymore. Maybe a hummingbird, wings beating millions of times per minute only to stay in the same place, but Gonzalo’s fine with that, because he doesn’t want to be any other place.
Their chests meet and their tongues brush in a violent tangle of a kiss, and Gonzalo’s hands spread over Sergio’s bare back, running up and down, feeling the corded muscle shift as Sergio moves his own arms, sliding his hands up under Gonzalo’s t-shirt and Gonzalo is dizzy again, because of bare skin and Sergio’s tongue flicking over the roof of his mouth and the heat of their chests, pressed together, but he doesn’t care this time. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t push Sergio back.
They fall against the sink, so maybe Gonzalo does pull Sergio somewhere, but it’s a good somewhere this time. Gonzalo groans as Sergio shoves his shirt up and lifts his hands over his head, letting Sergio take it off and fling it into the bathtub. Sergio’s thumbs one of his nipples and he arches, groaning into Sergio’s mouth. Gonzalo grips Sergio’s arms, trying not to lose his balance, and they shift just right, and Gonzalo tenses when he feels the press of Sergio’s erection against his hip.
“Sergio,” he says, barely pulling away from Sergio’s mouth, and then he braces himself against the sink, snakes his arms around Sergio’s back to slip his fingers under the elastic of Sergio’s boxers and pushes down. Sergio steps out of them, kicks them to the side, and Gonzalo reaches out, circling his fingers around Sergio’s cock.
“Fuck,” Sergio breathes, and bites down none-too-gently against Gonzalo’s bottom lip. Gonzalo moves his hand experimentally, one long stroke up, then back down, and Sergio does it again. In all his imagining, he’s never figured Sergio to be a biter, but he doesn’t mind, especially not when Sergio swirls his tongue over the bruise on the inside of his lip. If anything, he’s glad to know, because he’s the only one who can know now, because they fit and this is right and he fucked up before, but he’s not going to this time.
He continues to work Sergio’s cock, sweeping his thumb over the head and spreading precome along the length to ease the glide of his hand. Sergio draws him into another breathless kiss and slides his hands around, pushing down Gonzalo’s sweatpants, and Gonzalo has to break away to gasp for air when Sergio reaches around to palm his ass.
And then Sergio’s lifting him, using his grip on Gonzalo’s ass to get him on the sink, perched precariously on the counter, and Gonzalo spreads his legs, hooking his heels around Sergio’s back and drags him into another kiss.
When Gonzalo looks back down, Sergio’s spreading lube over his fingers and nudging Gonzalo’s knees further apart, and then Gonzalo feels the press of a finger, one then two, and groans, gripping the edge of the sink until his knuckles turn white. Sergio pushes his fingers in deeper and holds them there for a moment, tonguing Gonzalo’s pulsepoint until he groans, pushes his hips down to meet Sergio’s hand, and Sergio begins fucking him with his fingers, slow at first and then faster, faster, until Gonzalo thinks if he closes his eyes, he could see stars, but he doesn’t want to because Sergio’s biting his lip as he works his fingers in and out and it’s the fucking hottest thing Gonzalo’s ever seen.
“God, come on, fuck me for real,” he says, and Sergio releases his lip, nods. Gonzalo closes his eyes as Sergio withdraws his fingers, presses his forehead to Sergio’s shoulder, and then feels something else pushing at his entrance.
Gonzalo breathes out hard as Sergio pushes in, and Sergio grips his hips hard enough to leave bruises. It’s a little unsteady, and Gonzalo links his ankles around Sergio’s back to keep his balance, but then it doesn’t matter that he’s about to fall off the counter because Sergio’s moving, pushing in and out, and Gonzalo decides to concentrate more on pushing back to meet his thrusts than staying perfectly balanced. He traces Sergio’s abs with one hand, the other moving behind to explore Sergio’s ass, feeling the muscles clench and release with each thrust. Sergio groans and Gonzalo removes his hand, palming his own cock now, and Sergio moves to kiss his neck, and then one of Sergio’s hands joins Gonzalo’s on his cock and Gonzalo comes, hips lifting off of the sink as he shudders, spilling over their hands and Sergio’s stomach.
Sergio follows a moment later, and Gonzalo can feel Sergio’s cock pulse inside him, and he’s dizzy again but he grips Sergio’s arms tightly and surges forward to kiss Sergio through his orgasm and feels like he’s maybe more centered than he has been in a while.
--
Gonzalo still believes in fate. He still believes in mind-numbing, consequences-be-damned, life-altering fate. It’s become a touchstone for him, a fact of life. And every time Sergio puts his hand on Gonzalo’s thigh in the locker room -deliberately, not pretending to trip anymore- Gonzalo feels the puzzle pieces click into place all over again.
Sometimes he looks up and sees Iker looking at them and he can’t exactly describe the look on Iker’s face, but it’s somewhere between wistful and anguish, so Gonzalo gets up and squeezes Sergio’s hand before crossing the locker room and hugging Iker.
“Thank you,” he whispers, and Iker’s arms tighten around him reflexively, and then, “You should talk to him.”
Iker looks at the empty locker where Becks used to sit, and wiggles out of Gonzalo’s arms. “Some things are best left alone,” he says.
But Gonzalo knows better, and he’s also a sneaky bastard when he wants to be, so he grabs Iker’s phone and dials David’s number before Iker can do anything about it, and then presses the phone in to the keeper’s hand before dancing back over to Sergio.
Because Gonzalo also knows that even fate, reckless, abandoning, permanent fate, needs a little push in the right direction sometimes.
word count 3,878
pairing gonzalo higuain/sergio ramos
summary gonzalo believes in fate, or, sergio isn't as clueless as gonzalo thinks he is
rating nc-17 (i know, crazy, right?)
notes so a while ago there was a conversation over at ramos_fans and someone said there should be more gonzalo/sergio fic around. it took me a bit, but here's some gonzalo/sergio, because the pairing just stuck in my head ever since!
The locker room isn’t one of Gonzalo’s favorite places. It’s too loud, or too quiet, alternatively, and too crowded, even though in theory they all have plenty of personal space. The problem is really more that certain people don’t believe in personal space. Gonzalo remembers when Beckham was always invading Iker’s space, even though he was only there for a year before the Englishman left. Glancing over, he sees that Iker still sequesters himself in a corner, his face a blank mask.
It makes Gonzalo a little sad as he laces up his boots, to see Iker still so quiet, but. Gonzalo believes in fate, believes in fate as a reckless, dramatic, inconvenient, unshakable force of life, and so he figures there was a reason Becks left, just like there’s a reason Iker hasn’t cuddled up to anyone else.
“Hey, sorry,” Sergio says, tripping over Gonzalo’s legs a little as he sits down on the bench, and Gonzalo looks over at him and Sergio’s hand is still on his thigh, where the defender put it to steady himself.
It stays there until Pellegrini comes in to get them all onto the field, and Gonzalo tries not to think too hard about it, but he can’t help it- it feels like something slid into place, but he isn’t sure what, he just knows that it was-
Fate.
--
After that, Gonzalo is hyper-aware of Sergio. Not only of where he is on the pitch, in a purely professional, I-am-a-footballer-and-I-will-pass-to-my-best-friend-for-whom-I-may-have-feelings sort of way, but also when they’re showering, in the parking lot, when the entire team is surrounding him to congratulate his most recent hat trick. He can always reach out in the huddle and find Sergio, and he always does, lets his fingers linger on the defender’s forearm, or ruffles his hair in what he hopes is a teasing, friendly gesture.
And the way Sergio always does his warm up laps running right alongside Gonzalo, the way they juggle the ball around for a bit before practice really kicks off, the way they share raised eyebrows and ironic glances when Iker’s being grumpy or Cris says something stupid, well.
Gonzalo doesn’t like to admit that he sometimes looks at the training pictures on the Real Madrid website, but he’s kind of glad that someone’s taking picture of him and Sergio. That he isn’t imagining the arm slung heavy over his shoulders when they walk off the pitch, of the extra-bright smile aimed at him when the whole team is just messing around.
He’s kind of glad because he can look at those pictures and pretend that maybe it’s all real.
--
They have a routine, Gonzalo and Sergio. Gonzalo goes to Sergio’s after every match, and they share a six-pack, and watch shitty highlight reels of whatever games not their own that happened over the weekend. Sometimes they play ProEvo, and more often than not Gonzalo ends up spending the night, too tired to haul himself off of Sergio’s too-large sofa.
It’s a nice routine, all in all, and if Gonzalo sometimes wakes up on the couch and wishes he was waking up in Sergio’s bed, well, he can deal with that.
--
“’S a little stronger than usual,” Gonzalo remarks drily when Sergio opens the door to his house holding a bottle of tequila instead of the usual six-pack.
“This one hurt a little more than usual,” Sergio replies. Gonzalo shrugs and comes in the door, throwing his jacket off and accepting the shot glass Sergio offers.
“Salud,” he says, and Sergio echoes him. Their eyes meet right before Gonzalo throws the shot back, and when he does, he’s grateful to the burn of the alcohol for distracting him from the dark of Sergio’s eyes.
--
A few hours later, Gonzalo’s sprawled on Sergio’s couch, trying to flip over one of the throw pillows with his big toe. They’ve long since turned off the TV, unable to bear the constant Champions League talk with any grace, and instead got steadily and steadily drunker. Or at least, Gonzalo got steadily and steadily drunker. He isn’t exactly sure about Sergio.
He is sure that he’ll be staying over tonight, though.
“You trying to get me drunk?”
It takes Gonzalo a minute to realize he is the one who asked the question. When he does, his eyes go big and his lips purse a little, and he probably looks like someone’s grandmother. He can taste the tequila in the back of his throat and he concentrates on that. Concentrates on anything except Sergio.
“I think you got there without my help,” the Sevillan chuckles. Gonzalo nods in affirmation. “But would it have worked if I was?”
Gonzalo isn’t sure how to answer that. He’s fairly certain that telling Sergio he wouldn’t have to be drunk for whatever Sergio seems to have in mind isn’t the right way to go so he just-
Doesn’t answer.
--
He wakes up with the throw pillow tucked under his cheek and one of Sergio’s silk fleece blankets awkwardly, but sweetly, draped over his body. It’s kind of falling off of his hip, clinging futilely to the curve of his ass, and when Gonzalo wiggles a little, it slides to the ground. He groans. His mouth feels like cotton and he’s pretty sure he drooled all over Sergio’s pillow.
“Alive?”
Gonzalo tries to sit up and fails. Sergio’s voice is coming from somewhere near the kitchen, so Gonzalo settles for letting his arm flop over the back of the couch and trying to move his fingers in some kind of affirmative gesture. He isn’t sure if it works so he tries to clear his throat and speak.
“No,” he says, and despite his best efforts, it comes out as more of a croak than anything else.
“Well then, I’ll assume you don’t want any coffee? Or any of this omelet?”
Gonzalo almost kills himself trying to flop off of the couch and into the kitchen. He feels like a fish must, right when it’s tugged out of the water, before it’s dead but still flailing aimlessly, trying to return to its normal environment.
“You didn’t say anything about food,” he grumbles, and Sergio grins, pushes a plate towards him.
--
Sometimes, they hang out when it’s not after a game. Sometimes, Gonzalo follows Sergio’s car out of the parking lot and they go to lunch, at the Argentine place Gonzalo loves, where the owners treat him like their long lost son and always give him free appetizers. And then Gonzalo follows Sergio back to his house and they kill time, playing ProEvo and fighting over who gets to be Real Madrid. Sometimes Gonzalo accepts defeat and plays as River Plate, and makes Sergio laugh as he talks about Argentina, the crazy shit his old club used to get up to. Sometimes he tells kind of mean stories about Gago but Sergio laughs anyway.
It’s- nice. It almost doesn’t matter that Gonzalo can’t shake the feeling Sergio gives him, that everything just fits. Somehow, he can’t bring himself to care.
--
Sergio’s smoking.
It’s a rare week without a match, but Sergio doesn’t smoke anyway, so Gonzalo takes a minute to be confused before turning back to his beer, working his way through a fourth bottle, then a fifth. Then he looks back up at Sergio, who’s still working on the same cigarette and slowly breathing out the smoke, letting the ribbons curl up towards the ceiling. Gonzalo wrinkles his nose at the smell but is transfixed by Sergio’s lips, the way they stick ever so slightly to the paper of the cigarette when he pulls it out of his mouth.
“You have a pretty mouth,” Gonzalo blurts out, and then claps a hand over his own mouth, feeling kind of like a cartoon character. His head is pleasantly fuzzy but not enough so that he isn’t embarrassed.
Sergio turns to him, lets his pretty lips curl into a smile. Gonzalo tries not to stare. He isn’t sure how well that goes.
“Why are you smoking?”
Sergio shrugs. “’Cause I never have before. Figured, why not now?”
They’re standing closer than Gonzalo remembers, their shoulders almost knocking as they loom over the kitchen counter. Gonzalo leans over to put his now-empty bottle in the sink and when he turns back-
Sergio’s eyes are big and dark and his lips are pink and the cigarette is gone, maybe stubbed out somewhere, Gonzalo isn’t really sure. He doesn’t care. Their foreheads touch and Gonzalo’s almost afraid to breathe.
“You have a pretty mouth, too,” Sergio tells him. Sergio’s thumb is suddenly at Gonzalo’s mouth, tracing the bow of his lips, the heel of his hand braced on Gonzalo’s chin. The tip of Gonzalo’s tongue slips out to taste Sergio, licking tentatively at the pad of his thumb, and he tastes salty, like sweat, but also kind of distinct, not like anyone else Gonzalo’s been with. It’s right, just like Sergio’s hand on his thigh in the locker room and the way Gonzalo always finds Sergio’s crosses into the box.
He hears someone breathe in a little too sharply, and he isn’t sure who it is. Gonzalo ponders for a minute, but then Sergio moves his hand, pulls his thumb away to stroke at Gonzalo’s cheekbone. They kiss then, and it’s not what Gonzalo imagined- he forgets to be embarrassed that yes, he imagines kissing Sergio. All the time. He’s okay with it.
It’s- chaste, just their lips sliding together, dry and chapped, until Sergio pulls back.
Gonzalo chases after him, licks his lips, meets Sergio’s eyes. He waits the split second for Sergio to nod, almost imperceptibly, before he kisses Sergio again, and it’s not so patient this time, Sergio’s thumb rubbing frantic circles against his cheek and Sergio’s tongue sliding out to swipe across Gonzalo’s lower lip. It’s hungry and a little desperate and heat pools in the pit of Gonzalo’s belly.
Sergio crowds him against the counter, and Gonzalo feels lightheaded, whether from the kisses or the beer or something else altogether, he doesn’t know. Sergio tastes faintly of smoke, but not as much as he should, Gonzalo thinks distantly, because he’s kissed people who smoke before, and it’s not like this. But he’s too dizzy to analyze it any further and Sergio’s tongue curls around his and he can’t breathe, his chest is closing up-
Gonzalo puts his hands solidly against Sergio’s broad chest and pushes the Sevillan back, gasping for air a little. He feels like a fish again, out of place, frantic. “Sorry, sorry,” he gasps out, pulling his hands back like he’s been burned. Sergio tilts his head, and Gonzalo can feel Sergio’s eyes raking over his body and it makes his skin prickle.
“It’s okay,” Sergio tells him quietly.
It’s not, and they both know it. And it isn’t because they’re friends, or because they’re teammates, or because Gonzalo isn’t even gay, because none of that matters, he knows this is right. He believes in fate and its fickle nature, striking at whim. Reckless, omnipotent fate. Gonzalo knows.
It’s because he doesn’t know how to do this without fucking it up, and Sergio is-
Sergio is more important that anything, and Gonzalo refuses to fuck it up.
--
Nothing is like before. Practice is as awkward as hell, and Gonzalo feels his cheeks flame up every time Sergio glances his way. He keeps his head down, runs too fast for Sergio to keep up, taking a place next to Cris instead and eventually Sergio stops trying to catch his eye.
--
Gonzalo isn’t exactly sure how things are going to go after their next game, but when it comes down to it, he’s feeling like a big fat coward, and he hates himself for it. So he leaves the locker room before he’s even showered, just putting on a pair of jeans and pulling off his jersey in favor of an old River Plate sweatshirt, and he stops by the liquor store to buy a case of beer.
He’s never felt quite as uncomfortable as he does, knocking on Sergio’s door and shuffling back and forth. He wishes he’d stopped to take a shower, because he’s got sweat dried to his skin and possibly some grass stains on his knees and it’s making him feel even more awkward.
But Sergio swings the door open, leans against it for a beat longer than he should, and then ushers Gonzalo into the house.
--
Sergio goes to sleep first, but tells Gonzalo he can stay as long as he wants, so Gonzalo makes himself comfortable on the couch. It’s almost like the past week hasn’t happened, if he pretends hard enough. He can hear Sergio in the shower, and then brushing his teeth, and maybe it’s a little weird that Gonzalo is keeping track of Sergio’s bedtime routine, but it’s also exactly what he used to do, so he’s okay with it.
--
Sergio cooks breakfast again, and afterwards Gonzalo isn’t really sure if he’s welcome to stick around, if maybe they’ll just spend the day together like they used to, or if he should just go.
“I should leave,” he says quietly, and he doesn’t mean it at all, he just says it to give Sergio an opening.
It doesn’t work.
“Okay,” Sergio replies, just as quiet, and Gonzalo deserves it, he knows he does, it’s karmic retribution, and while that’s not exactly fate, it’s related. So he puts his keys in his pocket and thanks Sergio for breakfast and goes.
--
The whole team goes to Guti’s restaurant the next night, and Gonzalo isn’t sure at all what they’re celebrating, but he doesn’t really care. He has a good contract and the food is good and the wine is maybe a little too good, and he’s a little surprised when he gets up to use the restroom and Iker follows him.
“Hey,” he says, a little confused, as the door swings shut.
“You should talk to him,” Iker says, his voice even. It isn’t his captain voice, so Gonzalo knows he doesn’t have to listen, it isn’t a requirement, but-
But Iker knows what he’s talking about, Gonzalo reminds himself. Iker knows what it’s like to be alone in the locker room and on the pitch and in a big empty house. Gonzalo wants to ask him, wants to know if there’s something he should’ve talked to Becks about, way back when, but Gonzalo knows he can’t. Iker’s past is his own. But maybe, he’s sharing with Gonzalo, a little bit. In his own way. In the way of goalkeepers, who spend their time staring contemplatively down the pitch and anticipating every possible move.
--
Sergio drives him home, and Gonzalo leans on him and follows him into the house -Sergio’s house, not Gonzalo’s house, he realizes too late- and his head hits a pillow, softer than the throw pillow he’s used to, and he’s pretty sure he tells Sergio he loves him before he passes out.
--
Gonzalo wakes up in a bed, not on the couch, so he was right last night, in his analysis of pillows. But Sergio isn’t in the bed with him, which is more than a little disappointing, all things considered. Gonzalo rolls over into the empty space where Sergio should be, presses his face back into the pillow, and falls asleep again.
--
Eventually, Gonzalo hauls himself up and out of bed. His limbs are heavy and tired and he feels like he could sleep for days, exhausted just from a conversation with Iker. He pads around Sergio’s house for a few minutes before finding Sergio, shaving. Gonzalo leans against the open bathroom door.
“I meant it,” he tells Sergio. His voice echoes around the room and he thinks his heartbeat does, too, thump thump thump and it’s terrifying. He waits for the inevitable explosion, and his heart is the time bomb, the minute Sergio’s eyes glaze over in anger and rejection he’ll just-
Explode.
But Sergio doesn’t turn around in anger. He just blinks a few times, finishes shaving, washes his face. When he finally turns to face Gonzalo, his eyes are soft and his mouth is relaxed. “What are you going to do about it, then?”
It’s not the reaction Gonzalo was expecting, not one bit. But he takes a step forward, then another, and he has to remind himself how to walk, because he feels like he just finished a match, exhausted and elated and high like he just ran hard for ninety minutes and scored three goals and he’s in that place where nothing can touch him.
Nothing except Sergio, so Gonzalo finishes walking and reaches out his hand to run his thumb over Sergio’s smooth cheek and brings their lips together. It’s careful, considered, and Sergio lets him. Gonzalo explores slowly, getting used to the press of lips and the heat of Sergio’s mouth and the taste of him and the smell of the shaving cream.
Then Sergio opens his mouth under Gonzalo’s, and his heart is beating like crazy again but he’s not a time bomb anymore. Maybe a hummingbird, wings beating millions of times per minute only to stay in the same place, but Gonzalo’s fine with that, because he doesn’t want to be any other place.
Their chests meet and their tongues brush in a violent tangle of a kiss, and Gonzalo’s hands spread over Sergio’s bare back, running up and down, feeling the corded muscle shift as Sergio moves his own arms, sliding his hands up under Gonzalo’s t-shirt and Gonzalo is dizzy again, because of bare skin and Sergio’s tongue flicking over the roof of his mouth and the heat of their chests, pressed together, but he doesn’t care this time. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t push Sergio back.
They fall against the sink, so maybe Gonzalo does pull Sergio somewhere, but it’s a good somewhere this time. Gonzalo groans as Sergio shoves his shirt up and lifts his hands over his head, letting Sergio take it off and fling it into the bathtub. Sergio’s thumbs one of his nipples and he arches, groaning into Sergio’s mouth. Gonzalo grips Sergio’s arms, trying not to lose his balance, and they shift just right, and Gonzalo tenses when he feels the press of Sergio’s erection against his hip.
“Sergio,” he says, barely pulling away from Sergio’s mouth, and then he braces himself against the sink, snakes his arms around Sergio’s back to slip his fingers under the elastic of Sergio’s boxers and pushes down. Sergio steps out of them, kicks them to the side, and Gonzalo reaches out, circling his fingers around Sergio’s cock.
“Fuck,” Sergio breathes, and bites down none-too-gently against Gonzalo’s bottom lip. Gonzalo moves his hand experimentally, one long stroke up, then back down, and Sergio does it again. In all his imagining, he’s never figured Sergio to be a biter, but he doesn’t mind, especially not when Sergio swirls his tongue over the bruise on the inside of his lip. If anything, he’s glad to know, because he’s the only one who can know now, because they fit and this is right and he fucked up before, but he’s not going to this time.
He continues to work Sergio’s cock, sweeping his thumb over the head and spreading precome along the length to ease the glide of his hand. Sergio draws him into another breathless kiss and slides his hands around, pushing down Gonzalo’s sweatpants, and Gonzalo has to break away to gasp for air when Sergio reaches around to palm his ass.
And then Sergio’s lifting him, using his grip on Gonzalo’s ass to get him on the sink, perched precariously on the counter, and Gonzalo spreads his legs, hooking his heels around Sergio’s back and drags him into another kiss.
When Gonzalo looks back down, Sergio’s spreading lube over his fingers and nudging Gonzalo’s knees further apart, and then Gonzalo feels the press of a finger, one then two, and groans, gripping the edge of the sink until his knuckles turn white. Sergio pushes his fingers in deeper and holds them there for a moment, tonguing Gonzalo’s pulsepoint until he groans, pushes his hips down to meet Sergio’s hand, and Sergio begins fucking him with his fingers, slow at first and then faster, faster, until Gonzalo thinks if he closes his eyes, he could see stars, but he doesn’t want to because Sergio’s biting his lip as he works his fingers in and out and it’s the fucking hottest thing Gonzalo’s ever seen.
“God, come on, fuck me for real,” he says, and Sergio releases his lip, nods. Gonzalo closes his eyes as Sergio withdraws his fingers, presses his forehead to Sergio’s shoulder, and then feels something else pushing at his entrance.
Gonzalo breathes out hard as Sergio pushes in, and Sergio grips his hips hard enough to leave bruises. It’s a little unsteady, and Gonzalo links his ankles around Sergio’s back to keep his balance, but then it doesn’t matter that he’s about to fall off the counter because Sergio’s moving, pushing in and out, and Gonzalo decides to concentrate more on pushing back to meet his thrusts than staying perfectly balanced. He traces Sergio’s abs with one hand, the other moving behind to explore Sergio’s ass, feeling the muscles clench and release with each thrust. Sergio groans and Gonzalo removes his hand, palming his own cock now, and Sergio moves to kiss his neck, and then one of Sergio’s hands joins Gonzalo’s on his cock and Gonzalo comes, hips lifting off of the sink as he shudders, spilling over their hands and Sergio’s stomach.
Sergio follows a moment later, and Gonzalo can feel Sergio’s cock pulse inside him, and he’s dizzy again but he grips Sergio’s arms tightly and surges forward to kiss Sergio through his orgasm and feels like he’s maybe more centered than he has been in a while.
--
Gonzalo still believes in fate. He still believes in mind-numbing, consequences-be-damned, life-altering fate. It’s become a touchstone for him, a fact of life. And every time Sergio puts his hand on Gonzalo’s thigh in the locker room -deliberately, not pretending to trip anymore- Gonzalo feels the puzzle pieces click into place all over again.
Sometimes he looks up and sees Iker looking at them and he can’t exactly describe the look on Iker’s face, but it’s somewhere between wistful and anguish, so Gonzalo gets up and squeezes Sergio’s hand before crossing the locker room and hugging Iker.
“Thank you,” he whispers, and Iker’s arms tighten around him reflexively, and then, “You should talk to him.”
Iker looks at the empty locker where Becks used to sit, and wiggles out of Gonzalo’s arms. “Some things are best left alone,” he says.
But Gonzalo knows better, and he’s also a sneaky bastard when he wants to be, so he grabs Iker’s phone and dials David’s number before Iker can do anything about it, and then presses the phone in to the keeper’s hand before dancing back over to Sergio.
Because Gonzalo also knows that even fate, reckless, abandoning, permanent fate, needs a little push in the right direction sometimes.