22: Enemies
Enemies
Pairing: David Beckham/Iker Casillas
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: not true, oh dear.
A/N: rumours of my death were greatly exagerated
prompt 22
follows: Strangers and Friends
“Iker?” He called across the pitch at the keeper who was picking himself up after throwing himself body first into tackling Sergio. He must really be upset, David himself had stayed and many of these after training sessions, letting Iker get his frustrations out. Some times it was just free kick after free kick, each pushing the other until limbs were sore and too heavy to continue. But other days they would be send home by a nervous groundskeeper worried about what the physios would say the next day, the keeper making more dangerous tackles the more stressed he was.
Sergio stopped but Iker didn’t even glance up as he rolled the ball back out to the defender. Sergio looked between the two older men before dropping his head and starting towards Iker who rushed out of his goal. The two Spaniards collided with a loud smack that made David wince and Sergio roll painfully out of the challenge, rubbing at his ankle. David sighed and spun a ball out in front of him, striking it swiftly and precisely even in his Armani dress shoes. Iker turned with all the reflexes of a great keeper and snatched the lofty attempt with ease, glaring at the presumptuous Brit.
Sergio reassessed the situation and touched Iker’s shoulder as he left the pitch, the two of them exchanging a look David couldn’t read from where he was. But when the defender reached the mouth of the tunnel and the midfielder the glare he gave David had a very clear meaning: don’t fuck this up or I will end you.
Iker thought about following Sergio, his gut told him to flee, to run, to hide. But this, this above all, was his space; David could have Europe, Madrid, the stadium, but not the pitch. The pitch did and always would belong to Iker and he wouldn’t flee from what was his.
“Iker,” David began, only to be cut off by a ball striking him sharply in the chest, knocking the wind out of him.
“Just shut up, David.” Oh yes, it felt good to finally get that off his chest.
David’s lips pursed in irritation but he scooped the ball on to his foot anyways, lifting it a little to hit an easy volley to the keeper. He was taken aback (in more ways than one) by the force of the ball that was catapulted back at him. It hit him squarely in the chest, driving a un-David Beckham-ly grunt from him. He glared at the stone faced keeper and struck the next ball a little more firmly towards the left, demanding a reaching dive from the other man. But he was forced to retreat from the eighteen yard box when the answering toss hit just as hard as the first. They continued on like this- strike, save, toss- for a while, almost like old times but for the resentful tension emanating from the keeper.
David was building the courage to speak again when he heard a shout from behind him, “Oi! Beckham! Don’t you have a home to go to?”
David smiled and waved at the chuckling groundskeeper who headed back up the tunnel. He turned back, expecting a commiserating eye roll from Iker but instead the keeper was brushing past him, heading for the tunnel himself. David gaped after him before regaining his senses and hurrying after the other man.