023. lovers.
Nam Mellitus Erat, 023. lovers.
mid November.
025. strangers.
Iker wakes up and doesn’t know where he is for a second, which hasn’t really happened to him since he was a teenager.
He's still at the table. There’s a mark from the handle of the fork he was sleeping on lined in his face, and it’s around noon. The bowls of spaghetti are still sitting in front of him, untouched.
He jolts, hearing the sound again.
Someone’s knocking on the door.
He isn’t really awake and later he’ll feel stupid about how fast he scrambles out of his chair. What he expects-what he wants-is Cesc. Cold and angry but safe and in one piece. Glaring, but willing to stand in the same room as Iker, at least.
What he gets is Ricky, in a pair of brown corduroys and a t-shirt that doesn’t match.
Ricky seems to read something in his face, in the way he’s standing or maybe in the way he looks like total fucking shit, because he immediately says, “It is okay, Iker. I will come back another time.”
He’s already turning to leave when Iker’s brain starts working. “No.”
Ricky turns in the hall.
“No, Ricky.” Iker rubs his eyes and opens the door wider. He steps aside for him.
Ricky comes in. He idles awkwardly in the spot where Cesc did, the first time he ever came into their room. Iker sees him eying the bowls on the table but thankfully, he doesn’t say anything.
Iker picks Cesc’s hat up off his chair. He lays it on his desk, then offers the seat to Ricky.
“How are you?” he asks, taking the bowls into the kitchen. He considers scraping them out, but he doesn’t.
“I would like advice on-a relationship,” Ricky says.
Nobody else really takes Iker up on the “If there’s anything you need to talk about” clause he has to tack on the end of emails. And it’s not the time. And if it were anyone else, Iker would gently hint that he’s an RA, not a fucking love guru, and that Ricky needs to work this out on his own. But it’s Ricky. And Iker kind of suspects he doesn’t have many people to talk to.
“Okay,” he says finally. He turns his own chair towards Cesc’s, and sits down.
“This man, he asked me out,” Ricky starts. Uncomfortable, upset, and sleep-deprived as he is, Iker is kind of impressed. Most of them will try using gender-neutral pronouns for a while before slipping up and making the whole thing awkward-Ricky bypasses that step, which he vaguely appreciates. “And we went out, and it was good. We went out many times. But now, we do not.”
“Look, I don’t.” Iker winces, tries to remember where the aspirin is. “I don’t know the situation, Ric-”
“Say your opinion anyway. …Please?”
Iker forces his eyes open. Knowing that he looks like the living dead and Ricky seems completely unperturbed makes things somewhat easier. “Does it seem like he… likes you?” This is so fucking awkward. Iker has a hard enough time talking about his own relationships.
“Yes,” Ricky says firmly. “I know he likes me. But all the time he does not speak to me.”
Iker sighs, slumping in his chair. “That doesn’t mean he doesn’t like you.”
“Well he is, um. Confusing.” Ricky rearranges himself in his seat. “This confuses me.”
“…Yeah.”
Iker tries to figure out how to tactfully tell Ricky that he’s basically the most obvious virgin ever, and the guy probably feels bad rushing him. Or even fucking him at all.
“Look, Ricky. Maybe he thinks-he’s not the right person for you.”
“Well then, that is rude of him.” Iker looks up. He’s surprised. “It is my choice. My choice to be with him, not his.”
“That’s… true.”
Ricky leans back and crosses his arms, like he agrees. He nods sagely.
“That’s true,” Iker repeats, when it really sinks in. “Look.” He rubs his face. He laughs and he doesn’t know why. “Do you want some coffee? Do you like it?”
“Yes,” Ricky says, smiling seeing Iker smile, and Iker gets up to rinse out the pot. “I also brought this for you, to thank you for talking to me.”
“You knew I’d talk to you?”
“Yes,” Ricky says with his funny accent, grinning like Iker’s a total idiot.
Iker puts the coffee on and comes back, wiping his hands on his jeans. He accepts the bag Ricky offers him and peers inside. It’s a cinnamon roll from the bakery, one of the big ones that’s wider than his hand. Iker suddenly feels intensely grateful.
“…Thank you.”
Ricky grins again and nods and Iker goes into the kitchen for a plate.
“So this guy,” he calls back. “You’ve known him for a while?”
“Not very long, no.”
It takes five knocks for someone to answer the door. It’s Pique, and his cheek is blue and purple. The bandage across it looks too small for his head.
"Yeah, he popped me in the face because I told him he should fucking dump your ass,” he preempts. “And he's been picking fights with anyone that looks at him funny for, like, two weeks now.”
Iker’s heart sinks. “He isn’t here?”
For a moment, Iker thinks Pique might actually punch him. “He’s not with you? Fuck you, hombre, I’m not even-” He turns into the room saying something Iker can’t make out, then slams the door behind him.
Iker stares at the wood for a while. He’s lost. He doesn't have anywhere left to look.
He’ll just-drive around, he decides, walking down the hallway. He’ll drive until he finds him. Iker has never felt this calm and completely fucking irrational in his life.
“Iker, wait,” someone calls out behind him.
Iker turns. It’s Leo.
“He likes the sports bar on 19th and Pine. I can’t remember its name, but they let under-eighteens watch the games before six.”
Leo doesn’t say anything else, which Iker is grateful for. He’s just standing there, watching him. He doesn’t look forgiving, really, but doesn’t look murderous either.
“Thanks,” Iker says, and means it. He tries to impart that he’s going to try and fix it, without saying anything.
After a moment, Leo nods and goes back into the room.
Iker gets to the sports bar right when it's getting dark; the streetlights have just turned on. The parking lot is mostly empty and Cesc is already out front, nose bleeding, surrounded by three guys that are twice as big as him. Everyone’s mad and Cesc is clearly talking a lot of smack and not backing down, at all, when he definitely should. One of them shoves him, and Iker parks and gets out.
He doesn’t care what Cesc did. Cesc could have killed this guy’s mother and he wouldn’t care. He pulls Cesc out of the way and socks the guy right in the nose. He hears a crunch and sees red, and he knows broke it. He doesn’t regret it for a second. “Back off. Back the fuck off. Now.”
The guy backs off, eyes wide, hands open and raising up.
Iker reaches behind him and tugs Cesc’s jacket, then goes back to the car. To his surprise, Cesc follows. He sits in the passenger side and slams the door. Iker starts the car.
"You could have gotten kicked off the team," he tells Cesc, pulling out of the parking lot. His adrenaline is running high and somehow the most horrible worry and fear he’s ever felt in his life shifted right back into this insane anger and just fucking-frustration.
Cesc doesn't say anything, stubbornly looking out the window. Iker switches the radio off.
"Where did you sleep last night?"
"The library."
Iker darts a look at him. Cesc is still staring out the window, arms crossed. Like sleeping in public and not in a bed, sitting straight up and trying to sleep like that is just. Completely normal and okay.
"If you have to aga- don't go to the library, for fuck's sake,” Iker snaps. “Go to Pique's or Sergio's or-"
Hearing Iker cuss gets Cesc's attention, because it's unusual. He seems to think it means Iker's accusing him of something. "Big fucking deal. They have those big chairs in the back."
Iker slams his brakes and blares his horn at the person in front of him, even though it was his fault he didn’t realize they’d stopped.
They get inside and Iker unzips his coat, tosses his keys on the counter. The faint smell of spaghetti is still lingering in the air.
Cesc kicks his shoes off-he bumps his nose pulling off his sweatshirt and it starts bleeding again. Drops pitter on the floor. Cesc is surprised at it, fumbles up at his face like that will make it stop somehow, and it’s like a reflex, the way Iker feels this stupid amount of concern over him. He has a headache, he’s mad, and he steps forward to fix Cesc’s nose.
Cesc pushes him away. Iker ignores him and Cesc hits him with his fist. Then he hits him harder. He shoves Iker with both hands but Iker won’t stop trying until Cesc finally gives up and stills, at least a bit. He flinches when Iker cups the back of his head, slaps his arm away, but doesn't do it again when Iker steadies him, braces his hand firm and tight under Cesc’s nose.
The blood is warm on his skin, dripping a bit when Cesc forgets to breathe out his mouth. Iker waits thirty seconds, a quick fix until the bulk of the bleeding stops, then pulls his hand away.
Cesc wipes his nose with the back of his wrist. Noisily sucks in blood. “I’m sick of you,” he tells Iker.
Iker goes into the kitchen. “Go sit down,” he says, opening the cabinet above the fridge.
When he comes back, Cesc is sitting on the edge of the bed. Iker sets the first aid kit on the desk and digs for alcohol wipes.
"Take your shirt off."
Somewhere behind him, Cesc hesitates.
"Take it off," Iker repeats, not looking at him. "You need to put stain stuff on there, like, right now. Or it isn't going to come out."
Iker thought this would be more persuasive to Cesc. He likes that shirt. A lot. He got it at a thrift store-it’s gray and has a Star Wars logo on it. But still, Cesc just sits there, hands stuffed in his pockets.
"I already saw them," Iker says.
Cesc crosses his arms tighter, looking to the side. Then he uncrosses them, and pulls his shirt over his head.
The bruises look worse than Iker remembered. Maybe because he’s spent a week trying to forget them. Some of them are starting to turn an ugly shade of purple-green.
He knows, rationally, that Cesc isn't doing this for attention. That he isn't hurting himself, not on purpose. He's just cutting corners and taking tackles too hard, bumping his hip on the counter instead of making the effort to go around. He's not looking after himself. And Iker still can't deal with the concept of it, any better than he could when he first saw the bruises.
He had a vague plan. It crystallized in the shower over the weekend. He’d back Cesc up against the wall, use a stern voice and all his height advantage to scare it out of him. He’d tell him that this is his body to bruise. His. And if Cesc needs this, then Iker will be the one to give it to him. Because he'll give him anything he needs, Cesc doesn't even have to ask-but he isn't sure if it's right. Or if he even wants to. If he's just following a formula at this point, fetishizing Cesc beyond what he is or what they are. If Iker’s a parody of a parody of a parody of someone who’d be good for him. And he's too tired. He's too fucking tired.
Cesc looks fiercely angry, daring Iker to say something, but he sits still as Iker presses a wad of tissue in his nose, tilts his head back and pinches the bridge between his thumb and finger. Iker counts to one hundred in his head then lets Cesc's chin back down, slowly pulling the tissue out.
Cesc flinches at the cold and burn of the alcohol wipes, but Iker is careful. The more careful he is, the more Cesc seems to break down-he avoids eye-contact, actively trying to look mad and not embarrassed, but when Iker finishes and covers the bruise on his ribs with the palm of his hand, the expression wavers.
"Why are you doing this?" Iker asks.
"…I didn't mean to."
Iker knows that's true, but it isn’t an answer to the question. He doesn’t push it, when he knows he should.
Cesc is watches him try to process with down-turned lips and wide eyes. In the end, he reads Iker all wrong, sees arousal where there’s nothing but conflict and self-loathing, and because he's young, he thinks that if they're making up, they need to have sex.
They’re not making up. They haven’t fixed anything at all. But Cesc is scooting closer to him and kissing his neck with chapped lips, wincing when he bumps his nose under Iker’s jaw, and Iker isn’t going to push him off, because the last thing he wants is Cesc thinking he isn’t into him right now. And because he’s selfish, and he missed this.
He looks at what’s different about Cesc’s body after four weeks of not looking this closely; there isn’t much, really. He isn’t as tan as he was. There’s something written in faded pen inside his forearm that he wanted to remember for later. A single bandaid is wrapped around his ring finger.
"What do you need?" Iker asks honestly. He can't tell anymore.
"I don't know."
Iker goes with the familiar-laying Cesc on his back, covering him with his body, kissing his neck and palming where his skin is bare. But seeing Cesc like this; Iker can't get hard. The bruises don't make him ugly, but they don't turn Iker on when he knows, vaguely, that they could. He doesn't know if it's because they hurt Cesc, if it’s because they’re stark, physical evidence of how badly Iker fucked up. Or if, maybe, it’s just because he didn’t put them there. All of the options are probably partially true, and upsetting.
Cesc even smells different. He doesn't even smell familiar anymore.
Iker thinks maybe when he gets his fingers in him, it will be better. That when he hears the soft exhale and feels the wet, warm clutch, sees Cesc’s eyes go wide for the feeling, it will be easier and he can fake it, maybe.
Cesc isn't doing much better. He's all tight lines and tension, frozen halfway between sitting up and lying down, watching what Iker is doing between his legs. He shimmies out of his jeans and boxers, sucks his bottom lip in his mouth when Iker traces a line of slick down his thigh.
Iker can barely work a finger in. He pulls back and kisses Cesc for a while, rubbing over him with the pad of his thumb until he’s warm and wet with lube, then he tries again. He manages one but Cesc actually makes a sound of discomfort at the second, clenching tight on Iker’s knuckles. His eyes are wrenched shut.
Iker kisses the dip of his shoulder, then up under his ear. That always makes Cesc grin a little, take a breath, at least. But it doesn’t this time. Cesc almost seems to take it as a distraction, something he’s annoyed that Iker is doing. Iker wants to say come on or please, because he understands how important it is to Cesc that they fuck now, right now, but there’s no way Iker’s fucking him like this. Not when he can’t even take two fingers. And Iker can’t say anything, can’t embarrass Cesc like that when he knows he’s only so tight because he’s trying so fucking hard to relax.
But eventually, there’s nothing left he can do. "You're too tight," Iker says, eyes closed. He gently works his fingers free and Cesc grabs at him like he doesn't believe him, pulls his shirt, his hand, grabs the belt loops of Iker's jeans and yanks him closer, and Iker says, abruptly, "I'm not always going to be here."
He doesn’t know why he says it. He didn’t mean to. It rings in his ears, the finality of it, how quickly it could end everything. He expected it to hurt more, decides he might be dulled to it. It's been beating around in his mouth for weeks now.
Cesc goes still underneath him, hearing it. He’s half-dressed and flushed and messed up, looking at Iker like he looks at his math homework when the only thing he can fill in is his name.
Then, after a long moment, his face shifts. His mouth opens. The single wrinkle that's always there in his forehead smooths out, and Iker gets the uncanny feeling that Cesc is understanding something he does not.
"You're here now," Cesc says simply.
Iker isn’t sure what to reply.
Cesc sits up and tugs his shirt back on (he's cold, Iker thinks) and pulls his pants up, but doesn’t bother zipping up. Then he turns them both on their side and wraps his arms around Iker. Iker has the distinct feeling that he is being held, and not the other way around. He blinks in Cesc’s shoulder and waits for the other shoe to drop-but it doesn’t. In the end, it's been two weeks since he's had more than five hours of sleep and Cesc is warm, so he closes his eyes.
Iker has a dream that there’s a fire. He doesn’t have it every night, but he’s had it a few times, and when he wakes up, he reaches out for Cesc like he always does. This time, Cesc is there.
He got rid of his pants and boxers, but his shirt is still on. His legs are spread, and he's fingering himself. Iker can't look away.
Cesc glances over at him, maybe to turn himself on, and he grins. "You weren't supposed to wake up yet."
He inches over on his knees and works Iker’s jeans down to his thighs. He straddles Iker’s hips. He looks fucking perfect, bruises and all. "I don't care, you know. That you'll be gone." He pauses to open a condom wrapper, resorts to using his teeth when he can't get the package to rip.
"I mean, I do care. But I knew you were gonna be, when I first got into you. I don't care. I still want to be with you. I mean, do you-?" The bravado flickers, and Iker pulls him down to kiss him. He tries to keep it gentle but he can't.
"Always," he says against Cesc's open mouth. His fingers are tight in Cesc's hair.
Cesc pushes his face hard against Iker's. Crushes their noses together and bites him back. "Then stop being such a dick.” He slaps Iker’s arm. “I feel like I'm going crazy around you sometimes. You let me get used to you being there then you act like we don't-” Iker reaches down between them to tug at his cock and Cesc makes a pleased sound in his throat, ruts in his hand. “Don’t even know each other."
Cesc rubs his nose in Iker’s shoulder, then pulls back, like he remembers he has things to say. "You act crazy," he says simply, looking up at Iker. “Seriously, you do.” His eyes are big and brown, dried blood still ringing the inside of his nose. Iker fixates on the soft scar inside his eyebrow.
"And stop worrying about me all the time," Cesc adds. "I'm okay, you know."
Iker thinks, that's a stupid thing to ask of me. Thinks, I've been doing that since the day I met you, since the first day you kissed me, it's just. What I do. But he doesn't say anything. He kisses and bites like it will be enough, like jerking Cesc off will make him realize-but he knows, suddenly, that it won't be enough and it never was, so he says, "I'm sorry."
Then he presses their foreheads together and repeats it, quieter. "I'm really sorry."
I'm really sorry and I won't do it again and It’s just hard, sometimes and I'm fucking crazy for you, it's true. Cesc seems to understand all of that, like he always does. He doesn't forgive him, but he gives him a look like he might, later.
"I'm getting myself off first," he says, working at getting the condom on Iker’s dick. He fucks it up and has to really concentrate to straighten it out. He glares at Iker, like it’s his fault he fucking blows at putting condoms on. "You've been cockblocking me for a month."
He gets it fixed and is looking down, about to settle down on Iker’s dick, when Iker stills him. He reaches behind, and somehow, Cesc understands that he wants to check. He blinks placidly, spreads wider for Iker’s hand.
He feels ridiculously soft. Wet and slick under Iker’s fingertips. Iker strokes over him, then easily sinks a finger in. Then another. He watches Cesc’s face, the way his brows pull together, heat rising in his cheeks. He doesn’t know if he’s ever seen him this turned on. Cesc shifts forward the slightest bit on his hand and Iker edges in a third finger-Cesc’s hips bounce, like he can’t wait anymore.
“Okay?” he asks, breathless.
Iker pulls his fingers out and Cesc grunts, bites his lip-Iker keeps his thumb there as he lines himself up and lets Cesc sink down on him, feels every inch of his dick sliding into his body.
Cesc gets settled, panting quietly when the back of his thighs meet Iker’s hips. He flutters when Iker rubs his skin, right where he’s pressing up into him.
He takes a few moments to catch his breath, then he braces his hands on Iker’s chest and rides him.
Iker rubs his thighs, tweaks his nipples, but doesn’t thrust at all himself. Cesc wanted to get off first, and that seems fair. After a few minutes though, Cesc slows down, jerking himself off and looking down at Iker's face.
"Fuck," he says, frustrated and kind of laughing at the same time. "I get off fastest when you're getting off, it's so fucking retar-"
Iker sits up and Cesc clutches at his shoulders, tensing at the shift of movement inside of him. The fingers of his right hand slip and slide on Iker’s bicep.
Iker fucks him. It’s more tight upward rolls than thrusting, but it’s good and Cesc winds around him, holding on. He buries his face in Iker's neck. Iker realizes how fast he’s going to come and manages to get a hand around Cesc’s dick, pulls an orgasm out of him and bites his shoulder before he finishes.
It isn’t until afterwards, when they’re both panting and almost over-hot, that Iker realizes it’s exactly like the first time they messed around. Almost exactly like the first time.
He lays back on the bed, breathing, and Cesc follows. He wraps around him and hums. It takes him saying something for Iker to figure out why.
“You’re warm. It’s been so fucking cold not sleeping under you.” There’s a pause. “Don’t do that again.”
“Okay.”
Iker lets his breathing slow down. He feels Cesc’s slow too. He skims the edge of a bruise with the tips of his fingers.
"This will stop," he says, though it's more question than command.
"Yeah, that just. Happened." Cesc frowns looking down at himself, thinking. “…I was mad 'cause I couldn't figure out what the fuck was wrong with you.”
Iker knows he should be more worried, but that-makes sense. So he isn't worried. Well, he is. But not more than usual. He still presses his mouth to the bruise that’s closest to him. He would do all of them, but he’s pretty sure Cesc won’t let him.
He moves to a second and Cesc pokes his temple, right on cue. The bandaid is still clinging to his finger, looser than it should be. Iker kisses the palm of his hand.
Cesc immediately goes to pull his hand back, ticklish, maybe, but Iker won't let go of his wrist. He points his tongue and licks the very middle of Cesc's palm and Cesc hunches his shoulders up and tightens his knees, turns his head and tries to fight down a smile, then he looks down thoughtfully. Iker thinks he might be winding up to say something really insightful-
And Cesc squeezes Iker's face out of shape. When Iker doesn't stop him, Cesc gets bolder. He gives Iker fish lips, then a flat nose, then crooked eyes, then he laughs and lets go. Scratches Iker's beard.
"You look like shit,” he says.
“I feel like shit. And you don’t look much better.”
There the soft beginnings of a black eye edging in above Cesc's cheekbone.
“Things are getting better, though," Cesc decides, sitting back on Iker’s thighs.
"Getting," Iker emphasizes.
Cesc looks down and makes a really over-serious face at him and in that moment, Iker can't imagine him being a hundred miles away. He can't imagine being a couple inches away.
"Come home with me for Thanksgiving.”
Cesc pauses trying to fix his bandaid. He smiles. “Okay.”
093. thanksgiving.
Author's notes:
-/drama, cue domesticity.
-I'm really trying to catch up on comments--I'm finally done with my horrible thesis, so I will reply to all of them, promise. I really do appreciate them, a whole lot.
-Cesc looks really cute here.
-That is all.
mid November.
025. strangers.
Iker wakes up and doesn’t know where he is for a second, which hasn’t really happened to him since he was a teenager.
He's still at the table. There’s a mark from the handle of the fork he was sleeping on lined in his face, and it’s around noon. The bowls of spaghetti are still sitting in front of him, untouched.
He jolts, hearing the sound again.
Someone’s knocking on the door.
He isn’t really awake and later he’ll feel stupid about how fast he scrambles out of his chair. What he expects-what he wants-is Cesc. Cold and angry but safe and in one piece. Glaring, but willing to stand in the same room as Iker, at least.
What he gets is Ricky, in a pair of brown corduroys and a t-shirt that doesn’t match.
Ricky seems to read something in his face, in the way he’s standing or maybe in the way he looks like total fucking shit, because he immediately says, “It is okay, Iker. I will come back another time.”
He’s already turning to leave when Iker’s brain starts working. “No.”
Ricky turns in the hall.
“No, Ricky.” Iker rubs his eyes and opens the door wider. He steps aside for him.
Ricky comes in. He idles awkwardly in the spot where Cesc did, the first time he ever came into their room. Iker sees him eying the bowls on the table but thankfully, he doesn’t say anything.
Iker picks Cesc’s hat up off his chair. He lays it on his desk, then offers the seat to Ricky.
“How are you?” he asks, taking the bowls into the kitchen. He considers scraping them out, but he doesn’t.
“I would like advice on-a relationship,” Ricky says.
Nobody else really takes Iker up on the “If there’s anything you need to talk about” clause he has to tack on the end of emails. And it’s not the time. And if it were anyone else, Iker would gently hint that he’s an RA, not a fucking love guru, and that Ricky needs to work this out on his own. But it’s Ricky. And Iker kind of suspects he doesn’t have many people to talk to.
“Okay,” he says finally. He turns his own chair towards Cesc’s, and sits down.
“This man, he asked me out,” Ricky starts. Uncomfortable, upset, and sleep-deprived as he is, Iker is kind of impressed. Most of them will try using gender-neutral pronouns for a while before slipping up and making the whole thing awkward-Ricky bypasses that step, which he vaguely appreciates. “And we went out, and it was good. We went out many times. But now, we do not.”
“Look, I don’t.” Iker winces, tries to remember where the aspirin is. “I don’t know the situation, Ric-”
“Say your opinion anyway. …Please?”
Iker forces his eyes open. Knowing that he looks like the living dead and Ricky seems completely unperturbed makes things somewhat easier. “Does it seem like he… likes you?” This is so fucking awkward. Iker has a hard enough time talking about his own relationships.
“Yes,” Ricky says firmly. “I know he likes me. But all the time he does not speak to me.”
Iker sighs, slumping in his chair. “That doesn’t mean he doesn’t like you.”
“Well he is, um. Confusing.” Ricky rearranges himself in his seat. “This confuses me.”
“…Yeah.”
Iker tries to figure out how to tactfully tell Ricky that he’s basically the most obvious virgin ever, and the guy probably feels bad rushing him. Or even fucking him at all.
“Look, Ricky. Maybe he thinks-he’s not the right person for you.”
“Well then, that is rude of him.” Iker looks up. He’s surprised. “It is my choice. My choice to be with him, not his.”
“That’s… true.”
Ricky leans back and crosses his arms, like he agrees. He nods sagely.
“That’s true,” Iker repeats, when it really sinks in. “Look.” He rubs his face. He laughs and he doesn’t know why. “Do you want some coffee? Do you like it?”
“Yes,” Ricky says, smiling seeing Iker smile, and Iker gets up to rinse out the pot. “I also brought this for you, to thank you for talking to me.”
“You knew I’d talk to you?”
“Yes,” Ricky says with his funny accent, grinning like Iker’s a total idiot.
Iker puts the coffee on and comes back, wiping his hands on his jeans. He accepts the bag Ricky offers him and peers inside. It’s a cinnamon roll from the bakery, one of the big ones that’s wider than his hand. Iker suddenly feels intensely grateful.
“…Thank you.”
Ricky grins again and nods and Iker goes into the kitchen for a plate.
“So this guy,” he calls back. “You’ve known him for a while?”
“Not very long, no.”
It takes five knocks for someone to answer the door. It’s Pique, and his cheek is blue and purple. The bandage across it looks too small for his head.
"Yeah, he popped me in the face because I told him he should fucking dump your ass,” he preempts. “And he's been picking fights with anyone that looks at him funny for, like, two weeks now.”
Iker’s heart sinks. “He isn’t here?”
For a moment, Iker thinks Pique might actually punch him. “He’s not with you? Fuck you, hombre, I’m not even-” He turns into the room saying something Iker can’t make out, then slams the door behind him.
Iker stares at the wood for a while. He’s lost. He doesn't have anywhere left to look.
He’ll just-drive around, he decides, walking down the hallway. He’ll drive until he finds him. Iker has never felt this calm and completely fucking irrational in his life.
“Iker, wait,” someone calls out behind him.
Iker turns. It’s Leo.
“He likes the sports bar on 19th and Pine. I can’t remember its name, but they let under-eighteens watch the games before six.”
Leo doesn’t say anything else, which Iker is grateful for. He’s just standing there, watching him. He doesn’t look forgiving, really, but doesn’t look murderous either.
“Thanks,” Iker says, and means it. He tries to impart that he’s going to try and fix it, without saying anything.
After a moment, Leo nods and goes back into the room.
Iker gets to the sports bar right when it's getting dark; the streetlights have just turned on. The parking lot is mostly empty and Cesc is already out front, nose bleeding, surrounded by three guys that are twice as big as him. Everyone’s mad and Cesc is clearly talking a lot of smack and not backing down, at all, when he definitely should. One of them shoves him, and Iker parks and gets out.
He doesn’t care what Cesc did. Cesc could have killed this guy’s mother and he wouldn’t care. He pulls Cesc out of the way and socks the guy right in the nose. He hears a crunch and sees red, and he knows broke it. He doesn’t regret it for a second. “Back off. Back the fuck off. Now.”
The guy backs off, eyes wide, hands open and raising up.
Iker reaches behind him and tugs Cesc’s jacket, then goes back to the car. To his surprise, Cesc follows. He sits in the passenger side and slams the door. Iker starts the car.
"You could have gotten kicked off the team," he tells Cesc, pulling out of the parking lot. His adrenaline is running high and somehow the most horrible worry and fear he’s ever felt in his life shifted right back into this insane anger and just fucking-frustration.
Cesc doesn't say anything, stubbornly looking out the window. Iker switches the radio off.
"Where did you sleep last night?"
"The library."
Iker darts a look at him. Cesc is still staring out the window, arms crossed. Like sleeping in public and not in a bed, sitting straight up and trying to sleep like that is just. Completely normal and okay.
"If you have to aga- don't go to the library, for fuck's sake,” Iker snaps. “Go to Pique's or Sergio's or-"
Hearing Iker cuss gets Cesc's attention, because it's unusual. He seems to think it means Iker's accusing him of something. "Big fucking deal. They have those big chairs in the back."
Iker slams his brakes and blares his horn at the person in front of him, even though it was his fault he didn’t realize they’d stopped.
They get inside and Iker unzips his coat, tosses his keys on the counter. The faint smell of spaghetti is still lingering in the air.
Cesc kicks his shoes off-he bumps his nose pulling off his sweatshirt and it starts bleeding again. Drops pitter on the floor. Cesc is surprised at it, fumbles up at his face like that will make it stop somehow, and it’s like a reflex, the way Iker feels this stupid amount of concern over him. He has a headache, he’s mad, and he steps forward to fix Cesc’s nose.
Cesc pushes him away. Iker ignores him and Cesc hits him with his fist. Then he hits him harder. He shoves Iker with both hands but Iker won’t stop trying until Cesc finally gives up and stills, at least a bit. He flinches when Iker cups the back of his head, slaps his arm away, but doesn't do it again when Iker steadies him, braces his hand firm and tight under Cesc’s nose.
The blood is warm on his skin, dripping a bit when Cesc forgets to breathe out his mouth. Iker waits thirty seconds, a quick fix until the bulk of the bleeding stops, then pulls his hand away.
Cesc wipes his nose with the back of his wrist. Noisily sucks in blood. “I’m sick of you,” he tells Iker.
Iker goes into the kitchen. “Go sit down,” he says, opening the cabinet above the fridge.
When he comes back, Cesc is sitting on the edge of the bed. Iker sets the first aid kit on the desk and digs for alcohol wipes.
"Take your shirt off."
Somewhere behind him, Cesc hesitates.
"Take it off," Iker repeats, not looking at him. "You need to put stain stuff on there, like, right now. Or it isn't going to come out."
Iker thought this would be more persuasive to Cesc. He likes that shirt. A lot. He got it at a thrift store-it’s gray and has a Star Wars logo on it. But still, Cesc just sits there, hands stuffed in his pockets.
"I already saw them," Iker says.
Cesc crosses his arms tighter, looking to the side. Then he uncrosses them, and pulls his shirt over his head.
The bruises look worse than Iker remembered. Maybe because he’s spent a week trying to forget them. Some of them are starting to turn an ugly shade of purple-green.
He knows, rationally, that Cesc isn't doing this for attention. That he isn't hurting himself, not on purpose. He's just cutting corners and taking tackles too hard, bumping his hip on the counter instead of making the effort to go around. He's not looking after himself. And Iker still can't deal with the concept of it, any better than he could when he first saw the bruises.
He had a vague plan. It crystallized in the shower over the weekend. He’d back Cesc up against the wall, use a stern voice and all his height advantage to scare it out of him. He’d tell him that this is his body to bruise. His. And if Cesc needs this, then Iker will be the one to give it to him. Because he'll give him anything he needs, Cesc doesn't even have to ask-but he isn't sure if it's right. Or if he even wants to. If he's just following a formula at this point, fetishizing Cesc beyond what he is or what they are. If Iker’s a parody of a parody of a parody of someone who’d be good for him. And he's too tired. He's too fucking tired.
Cesc looks fiercely angry, daring Iker to say something, but he sits still as Iker presses a wad of tissue in his nose, tilts his head back and pinches the bridge between his thumb and finger. Iker counts to one hundred in his head then lets Cesc's chin back down, slowly pulling the tissue out.
Cesc flinches at the cold and burn of the alcohol wipes, but Iker is careful. The more careful he is, the more Cesc seems to break down-he avoids eye-contact, actively trying to look mad and not embarrassed, but when Iker finishes and covers the bruise on his ribs with the palm of his hand, the expression wavers.
"Why are you doing this?" Iker asks.
"…I didn't mean to."
Iker knows that's true, but it isn’t an answer to the question. He doesn’t push it, when he knows he should.
Cesc is watches him try to process with down-turned lips and wide eyes. In the end, he reads Iker all wrong, sees arousal where there’s nothing but conflict and self-loathing, and because he's young, he thinks that if they're making up, they need to have sex.
They’re not making up. They haven’t fixed anything at all. But Cesc is scooting closer to him and kissing his neck with chapped lips, wincing when he bumps his nose under Iker’s jaw, and Iker isn’t going to push him off, because the last thing he wants is Cesc thinking he isn’t into him right now. And because he’s selfish, and he missed this.
He looks at what’s different about Cesc’s body after four weeks of not looking this closely; there isn’t much, really. He isn’t as tan as he was. There’s something written in faded pen inside his forearm that he wanted to remember for later. A single bandaid is wrapped around his ring finger.
"What do you need?" Iker asks honestly. He can't tell anymore.
"I don't know."
Iker goes with the familiar-laying Cesc on his back, covering him with his body, kissing his neck and palming where his skin is bare. But seeing Cesc like this; Iker can't get hard. The bruises don't make him ugly, but they don't turn Iker on when he knows, vaguely, that they could. He doesn't know if it's because they hurt Cesc, if it’s because they’re stark, physical evidence of how badly Iker fucked up. Or if, maybe, it’s just because he didn’t put them there. All of the options are probably partially true, and upsetting.
Cesc even smells different. He doesn't even smell familiar anymore.
Iker thinks maybe when he gets his fingers in him, it will be better. That when he hears the soft exhale and feels the wet, warm clutch, sees Cesc’s eyes go wide for the feeling, it will be easier and he can fake it, maybe.
Cesc isn't doing much better. He's all tight lines and tension, frozen halfway between sitting up and lying down, watching what Iker is doing between his legs. He shimmies out of his jeans and boxers, sucks his bottom lip in his mouth when Iker traces a line of slick down his thigh.
Iker can barely work a finger in. He pulls back and kisses Cesc for a while, rubbing over him with the pad of his thumb until he’s warm and wet with lube, then he tries again. He manages one but Cesc actually makes a sound of discomfort at the second, clenching tight on Iker’s knuckles. His eyes are wrenched shut.
Iker kisses the dip of his shoulder, then up under his ear. That always makes Cesc grin a little, take a breath, at least. But it doesn’t this time. Cesc almost seems to take it as a distraction, something he’s annoyed that Iker is doing. Iker wants to say come on or please, because he understands how important it is to Cesc that they fuck now, right now, but there’s no way Iker’s fucking him like this. Not when he can’t even take two fingers. And Iker can’t say anything, can’t embarrass Cesc like that when he knows he’s only so tight because he’s trying so fucking hard to relax.
But eventually, there’s nothing left he can do. "You're too tight," Iker says, eyes closed. He gently works his fingers free and Cesc grabs at him like he doesn't believe him, pulls his shirt, his hand, grabs the belt loops of Iker's jeans and yanks him closer, and Iker says, abruptly, "I'm not always going to be here."
He doesn’t know why he says it. He didn’t mean to. It rings in his ears, the finality of it, how quickly it could end everything. He expected it to hurt more, decides he might be dulled to it. It's been beating around in his mouth for weeks now.
Cesc goes still underneath him, hearing it. He’s half-dressed and flushed and messed up, looking at Iker like he looks at his math homework when the only thing he can fill in is his name.
Then, after a long moment, his face shifts. His mouth opens. The single wrinkle that's always there in his forehead smooths out, and Iker gets the uncanny feeling that Cesc is understanding something he does not.
"You're here now," Cesc says simply.
Iker isn’t sure what to reply.
Cesc sits up and tugs his shirt back on (he's cold, Iker thinks) and pulls his pants up, but doesn’t bother zipping up. Then he turns them both on their side and wraps his arms around Iker. Iker has the distinct feeling that he is being held, and not the other way around. He blinks in Cesc’s shoulder and waits for the other shoe to drop-but it doesn’t. In the end, it's been two weeks since he's had more than five hours of sleep and Cesc is warm, so he closes his eyes.
Iker has a dream that there’s a fire. He doesn’t have it every night, but he’s had it a few times, and when he wakes up, he reaches out for Cesc like he always does. This time, Cesc is there.
He got rid of his pants and boxers, but his shirt is still on. His legs are spread, and he's fingering himself. Iker can't look away.
Cesc glances over at him, maybe to turn himself on, and he grins. "You weren't supposed to wake up yet."
He inches over on his knees and works Iker’s jeans down to his thighs. He straddles Iker’s hips. He looks fucking perfect, bruises and all. "I don't care, you know. That you'll be gone." He pauses to open a condom wrapper, resorts to using his teeth when he can't get the package to rip.
"I mean, I do care. But I knew you were gonna be, when I first got into you. I don't care. I still want to be with you. I mean, do you-?" The bravado flickers, and Iker pulls him down to kiss him. He tries to keep it gentle but he can't.
"Always," he says against Cesc's open mouth. His fingers are tight in Cesc's hair.
Cesc pushes his face hard against Iker's. Crushes their noses together and bites him back. "Then stop being such a dick.” He slaps Iker’s arm. “I feel like I'm going crazy around you sometimes. You let me get used to you being there then you act like we don't-” Iker reaches down between them to tug at his cock and Cesc makes a pleased sound in his throat, ruts in his hand. “Don’t even know each other."
Cesc rubs his nose in Iker’s shoulder, then pulls back, like he remembers he has things to say. "You act crazy," he says simply, looking up at Iker. “Seriously, you do.” His eyes are big and brown, dried blood still ringing the inside of his nose. Iker fixates on the soft scar inside his eyebrow.
"And stop worrying about me all the time," Cesc adds. "I'm okay, you know."
Iker thinks, that's a stupid thing to ask of me. Thinks, I've been doing that since the day I met you, since the first day you kissed me, it's just. What I do. But he doesn't say anything. He kisses and bites like it will be enough, like jerking Cesc off will make him realize-but he knows, suddenly, that it won't be enough and it never was, so he says, "I'm sorry."
Then he presses their foreheads together and repeats it, quieter. "I'm really sorry."
I'm really sorry and I won't do it again and It’s just hard, sometimes and I'm fucking crazy for you, it's true. Cesc seems to understand all of that, like he always does. He doesn't forgive him, but he gives him a look like he might, later.
"I'm getting myself off first," he says, working at getting the condom on Iker’s dick. He fucks it up and has to really concentrate to straighten it out. He glares at Iker, like it’s his fault he fucking blows at putting condoms on. "You've been cockblocking me for a month."
He gets it fixed and is looking down, about to settle down on Iker’s dick, when Iker stills him. He reaches behind, and somehow, Cesc understands that he wants to check. He blinks placidly, spreads wider for Iker’s hand.
He feels ridiculously soft. Wet and slick under Iker’s fingertips. Iker strokes over him, then easily sinks a finger in. Then another. He watches Cesc’s face, the way his brows pull together, heat rising in his cheeks. He doesn’t know if he’s ever seen him this turned on. Cesc shifts forward the slightest bit on his hand and Iker edges in a third finger-Cesc’s hips bounce, like he can’t wait anymore.
“Okay?” he asks, breathless.
Iker pulls his fingers out and Cesc grunts, bites his lip-Iker keeps his thumb there as he lines himself up and lets Cesc sink down on him, feels every inch of his dick sliding into his body.
Cesc gets settled, panting quietly when the back of his thighs meet Iker’s hips. He flutters when Iker rubs his skin, right where he’s pressing up into him.
He takes a few moments to catch his breath, then he braces his hands on Iker’s chest and rides him.
Iker rubs his thighs, tweaks his nipples, but doesn’t thrust at all himself. Cesc wanted to get off first, and that seems fair. After a few minutes though, Cesc slows down, jerking himself off and looking down at Iker's face.
"Fuck," he says, frustrated and kind of laughing at the same time. "I get off fastest when you're getting off, it's so fucking retar-"
Iker sits up and Cesc clutches at his shoulders, tensing at the shift of movement inside of him. The fingers of his right hand slip and slide on Iker’s bicep.
Iker fucks him. It’s more tight upward rolls than thrusting, but it’s good and Cesc winds around him, holding on. He buries his face in Iker's neck. Iker realizes how fast he’s going to come and manages to get a hand around Cesc’s dick, pulls an orgasm out of him and bites his shoulder before he finishes.
It isn’t until afterwards, when they’re both panting and almost over-hot, that Iker realizes it’s exactly like the first time they messed around. Almost exactly like the first time.
He lays back on the bed, breathing, and Cesc follows. He wraps around him and hums. It takes him saying something for Iker to figure out why.
“You’re warm. It’s been so fucking cold not sleeping under you.” There’s a pause. “Don’t do that again.”
“Okay.”
Iker lets his breathing slow down. He feels Cesc’s slow too. He skims the edge of a bruise with the tips of his fingers.
"This will stop," he says, though it's more question than command.
"Yeah, that just. Happened." Cesc frowns looking down at himself, thinking. “…I was mad 'cause I couldn't figure out what the fuck was wrong with you.”
Iker knows he should be more worried, but that-makes sense. So he isn't worried. Well, he is. But not more than usual. He still presses his mouth to the bruise that’s closest to him. He would do all of them, but he’s pretty sure Cesc won’t let him.
He moves to a second and Cesc pokes his temple, right on cue. The bandaid is still clinging to his finger, looser than it should be. Iker kisses the palm of his hand.
Cesc immediately goes to pull his hand back, ticklish, maybe, but Iker won't let go of his wrist. He points his tongue and licks the very middle of Cesc's palm and Cesc hunches his shoulders up and tightens his knees, turns his head and tries to fight down a smile, then he looks down thoughtfully. Iker thinks he might be winding up to say something really insightful-
And Cesc squeezes Iker's face out of shape. When Iker doesn't stop him, Cesc gets bolder. He gives Iker fish lips, then a flat nose, then crooked eyes, then he laughs and lets go. Scratches Iker's beard.
"You look like shit,” he says.
“I feel like shit. And you don’t look much better.”
There the soft beginnings of a black eye edging in above Cesc's cheekbone.
“Things are getting better, though," Cesc decides, sitting back on Iker’s thighs.
"Getting," Iker emphasizes.
Cesc looks down and makes a really over-serious face at him and in that moment, Iker can't imagine him being a hundred miles away. He can't imagine being a couple inches away.
"Come home with me for Thanksgiving.”
Cesc pauses trying to fix his bandaid. He smiles. “Okay.”
093. thanksgiving.
Author's notes:
-/drama, cue domesticity.
-I'm really trying to catch up on comments--I'm finally done with my horrible thesis, so I will reply to all of them, promise. I really do appreciate them, a whole lot.
-Cesc looks really cute here.
-That is all.