Fic: Diego Lugano/Diego Forlán, R
Title: The Right Message
Pairing: Diego Lugano/Diego Forlán
Rating: R
Warnings: no
Word Count: 784
Disclaimer: Not true. Not a word of truth here. I know it, and you should know it too.
Summary: Texting the right thing is harder than it seems.
Notes: Written from Forlán’s POV, but can be read either way.
He doesn’t understand texting. At least not in this context. Texting may be efficient, but it just seems unsuitable. What is he supposed to say? What on Earth can he write to express how he feels?
He supposes that when Diego briefly paused before he left his room and said text me without even turning around, it meant little, or nothing at all. He supposes it was just something to say, lower than call me or even we’ll be in touch.
But maybe he’s wrong. Maybe Diego does want him to text, to say I’m in my room, come… He’s not sure what’s supposed to come after that. He doesn’t think he can write come fuck me, even though he didn’t have a problem begging Diego to do just that a few night ago.
Besides, he’s not sure he’s ready for Diego to come and fuck him. He’s not sure he’s ready to face another bleak morning-after.
But he’s tempted; he'd wanted it for so long, waiting for Diego to notice, waiting for him to stop toying with him, to actually, finally, come to him… And he’s tempted to let it happen again, but Diego is ignoring him - pointedly ignoring him - and he can only hope that he’ll either stop craving it so much or figure out what Diego meant when he told him to text him.
He tries to write something noncommittal, like movie?, but quickly erases it, realising it’s even worse than a straightforward come and fuck me. He tries to text the number of his room, but that, too, seems wrong.
He gives up and tries to force Diego to look at him, acknowledge him in any way, but no matter how determinedly he stares at him, Diego shows no sign that he notices it at all.
He begins to wonder if text me meant anything at all, other an attempt to ease the awkward moment when Diego realised he was awake and watching him from the bed while he hastily pulled on his shirt and jeans and tried to sneak out of the room before he woke up.
He even begins to wonder if that night, that wonderful, breathtaking night, happened at all.
If it weren’t for the subtle bruises still palpable on his pale skin, he might think it only happened in his head, in his heated, desperate imagination. And really, it was a bit like a dream - exactly as he’d imagined it, but better, more real, obviously real. But maybe real meant something else to Diego; maybe what he’d experienced as a titillating experience that left him craving so much more meant nothing to Diego at all.
Maybe Diego was in a habit of fucking his teammates for sake of a pure, physical relief, and he was a fool to think it meant anything at all.
He can’t - he won’t - accept it. He is so convinced, so certain, that there has to be more. Not that he can’t imagine Diego seducing someone else and discarding him as easily as he discards his shirts, but he can’t believe it was the same with him. There was something about the way Diego looked at him, in the way he held him - to tightly, almost awkwardly, as if afraid he might escape although he could do little more than gasp and beg - that makes him almost certain that there simply had to be more.
Maybe that’s what he should write. Maybe he should just say that - there has to be more. It couldn’t have been enough for you, as it wasn’t for me. Come back to me.
But he doesn’t write it, just stares at the screen and drops his phone back onto the nightstand, closes his eyes and prepares for another night of tossing and turning and dreaming of Diego’s eyes staring piercingly at him, Diego's hands holding him down and Diego's lips moving slightly as he whisped things he cannot remembered while he fucked him.
He wakes up sweating, grabs his phone and sends a message before he can overthink it. This is the closest he can come to telling Diego what he wants in a text, the closest he can bring himself to telling Diego what he thinks Diego wants to hear.
I need you.
He knows it won’t be long now before there’s a knock on his door, but suddenly, it doesn’t fill him with dread, only with anticipation.
Maybe Diego was right; maybe forcing him to put it into words, making him write it, even if only in a text message, finally made it all clear.
He needed Diego, and Diego, he was now certain, needed him, in his own way, just as much.