Chapter Text
It’s a bit of a blur what exactly happens after Fellaini tackles him to the ground. There is the way he hits the ground harder than he likes, the pain shooting up his leg, the flash of yellow, and he’s saying something to the Belgian idiot as he scrambles up, something like who the fuck do you think you are or back off and then he’s flying down to the ground again thanks to Fellaini’s thick and wide forehead.
Then again Manchester derbies are always bit of a blur for Kun whether they are playing in front of the deafening Old Trafford crowds or the…not deafening but still loud ones at the Etihad. Every derby, Kun’s world narrows to a single aim from the moment the ref blows the starting whistle: to put the goal in the back of the net by any means necessary. To show the world what Kun has known since he stepped foot in this rainy city.
That Manchester is as blue as the open skies on a summer morning.
This time though as he picks himself up still holding his forehead there is one thing that stands out from the blur, in the form of one small and angry Spaniard.
‘You fucking idiot,’ Herrera is saying, yelling, not one but two veins popping up on his neck, ‘you diving cheating son of a bitch you threw yourself to the fucking ground twice at that too--
The man doesn’t seem to be affected by human constraints such as the need to breathe either. Just goes on spewing insult upon insult and spluttering Kun with spit in the process. (Gross).
--do you have no shame it’s a fucking disgrace they let you play what the fuck is wrong with you--
From the corner of his eye Kun sees Fellaini march off the field in a huff. Serves him right, he thinks, the aggressive bastard with the football sense of a Christmas tree. Ander turns to the referee and seamlessly switches from Spanish to English mid breath, the stream of shouting unbroken.
“No dive, no dive” Kun shouts to join the conversation because he too can speak English damnit, it’s not like it’s that big a deal.
Kun’s family had a dog when he was growing up, see. Nasty little thing. Wasn’t good for shit so she’d bark up a storm at the smallest occasion and drive Kun up the wall.
Herrera with his endless yapping reminds Kun of her.
Except.
Well Fifi was fucking ugly too with her coarse wiry fur and beady eyes. And Herrera. Well. He has that baby face going for him, a sweet smile (even if he’s far far from a smile right now—but Kun’s seen pictures and heard him laugh in the occasional David Silva dinner party, hasn't he?) He also looks ridiculous like this sure, as well as fucking annoying but there is perhaps something to be said of his passion. His righteous anger as though he’s Poseidon or Hades or whichever god it was and Kun just stole the fire.
Kun shakes his head as they get into position for the City free kick. He can’t afford to think about Herrera as the ruler of the seven seas with a stately beard and a trident when they have less than ten minutes to break this shit United side. They are running out of time.
He doesn’t pay much attention to Herrera after that, except to whizz past him a couple of times with the ball. The game doesn’t get any easier now that the Belgian buffoon is off, because, Kun thinks bitterly it’s not like he was doing much when he was on the field in the first place.
And yet they still pull up short. The referee blows the final whistle and Kun murmurs a curse under his breath. ‘You fucking go die in a fire,’ Herrera shouts as he walks past.
‘Likewise you bastard!’ Kun answers. He is too tired and too frustrated to even think about the irony of what Herrera has just said.
*
He is in the middle of a weird-ass dream when the ringing of the doorbell wakes him with a start. One minute Herrera is on top of him, Kun’s hand stroking the floppy, furry gray ears that jut out of his brown hair as he licks a trail down Kun’s neck and then looking up, barks at Kun. And in the next he is sitting up on his sofa, groggy and alone in the living room that’s grown dark.
Kun shakes his head and files his dream under the never to think of again category. Some imagination he has. He also hopes his erection isn’t too visible under his shorts or better yet that whoever has come to pay him an impromptu visit gives up and leaves.
The doorbell rings again, shrill and insistent and rules out the latter scenario.
He gets up with a huff. If Kolarov has run out of shampoo again, so help him God. How can a bald man use such staggering amounts of shampoo really, enough to put even Ronaldo to shame? And even if he does for some unfathomable reason why, why would he come to Kun’s house every time at night and say ‘Shampoo. Please.’ with that perpetual scowl of his?
Since Kun doesn’t speak English he can’t tell him to fuck off and well, he dares not close the door on Aleksandar bloody Kolarov’s face either so each time he has to smile and go fetch some shampoo like a good dog (okay this dog analogy is really getting out of hand now. Like a good teammate. There. He has to go fetch shampoo like a good teammate because that’s what teammates do for one another.)
“Shampoo?” he says in English automatically as he opens the door.
“I-- Shampoo?” Herrera repeats, sounding somewhere between offended and very confused, scrunching up his face.
Herrera.
Fuck.
Maybe it’s the dream speaking but the man looks devastating in the twilight in his tight-fitting gray shirt and ripped jeans. Kun shifts where he stands to an angle that will draw as little attention to his crotch as possible. He aims for suave and nonchalant.
“Sorry. I thought you were Kolarov. He keeps asking me for shampoo and it’s very bothersome really he came three times this week once when I’d just settled in for a nice bath with a glass of wine. I had to come out all soapy and it ruined my bathrobe.”
Wow. That was as close to suave and nonchalant as United are to being relevant. Sleepy and ambushed as he is it’s a new low even for Kun.
Herrera cocks an eyebrow and deadpans. “Why would a bald man need so much shampoo?”
“That is exactly what I’ve been saying! I asked Leo and even Antonella doesn’t go through that much shampoo in a week. You are friends with David aren’t you? Can you make him teach me how to say--”
Kun stops before he can embarrass himself further. Whatever this United man came to talk about it’s not the correlation between hair length and shampoo consumption.
There, that sounded very smart. The pop Economics book he’s reading is clearly doing it’s job. He didn’t say it out loud, but still.
“What,” he continues, doing a better approximation of casual and suave than before, “what brings you here?”
“Ah.” Herrera scratches his head (that is thankfully free of dog ears.) “I, uh I was a little too harsh on the field towards you earlier.”
“You were so angry…” Kun replies trying not to sound too dreamy. By the God above the man’s face is expressive and the contrast between his fury earlier and the softness of it now in the dying light... Kun shifts where he stands once again.
Plays for the enemy, he reminds himself. United. Gross. Evil.
“God knows you lot drive me up the wall with your antics, but.” Herrera looks away. “I--when I told you to go die in a fire I didn’t really mean it, you know?”
“Yeah, I didn’t mean it either,” Kun mumbles quickly, examining his tiles.
“Sorry,” Herrera says, “I have this thing against cursing people. What if you actually died in a fire, you know? Didn’t mean to disturb your evening.” He offers Kun his hand and a half smile, reserved, almost melancholy.
“Oh no I had passed out on my couch like an old man. Would have probably slept there the entire night too if you hadn’t woken me. It’s always hard to get a decent night’s sleep before games and it is such a burden on the nerves too, the derbies. Man my shoulders would have been all sore in the morning.”
He can hear bells going tmi! tmi! in the distance. What is it with him and oversharing tonight? Normally he is Sergio Kun Aguero, the sweetheart of ladies, the charmer of men and not this blabbering idiot.
Herrera chuckles, a warm, pleasant sound. “Dude,” he says with a grin, “Juan makes so much fun of me for passing out on well his couch whenever we play at home. But it’s so normal isn’t it? Let’s see what he’ll have to say now.”
“Well,” Kun answers, basking in the glow of Herrera’s laughter, “your sample size is pretty small there and I’m not sure if I make a good data point as far as Mata is concerned.”
Herrera lets out a quick huff like he’s just realized Kun is City. “True that,” he says, half disappointed. They stand there for a moment, the burden of their club identities heavy between them, unsure what to do.
A cold wind blows, rustling the trees. Ander hugs himself and winces.
Kun realizes with something akin to horror that they have been standing at his door, Kun mostly in the warmth of the house Herrera fully exposed outside on the steps for a while now. The man isn’t even wearing a jacket for fuck’s sake and it’s Manchester. Temperature drops like Arsenal from the top four once it gets dark, spring or not.
“You are cold,” he says, very observantly.
“A little, a little.” Herrera deflects it with a shrug but hugs himself tighter. “I should go.”
“Or,” Kun says, still not back to his suave best, but getting there “I could make you tea.”
Ander doesn’t even wait until he finishes his sentences and dashes inside past Kun with a “yeah, I’d like that very much.”
Kun hopes it’s less because he is trying to escape the bitter cold and more because he is just that eager to come in.
Either way, as Herrera is about to find out Kun makes excellent tea.