Work Text:
The night after they lose their chance in World Cup, Sergio doesn't remember much.
It was devastatingly obviously, but it wasn't their very first loss. He felt cheated, on the pitch, referees not calling when the Russian players pulled him down. It was so obviously a bias to protect the host team.So what if you played the game right and you're a good footballer, there's a hundred other factors that leads the other way, whether you like it or not.
He heads off the pitch, waving off calls and ignoring everything. He makes his way over to the showers, takes a quick one, and goes back out. Walking past Jordi, he gives him a light pat and a quick smile. He takes a seat over at the corner, shoving clothes quickly into his bag.
He was tired. He would just really like to go home.
The bus ride to the airport was silent, and it was the same on the plane. Most of the players were asleep or watching some show on their devices. And on the plane, it was pretty much the same. Sergio picks a seat around the middle, putting his bag in the overhead storage before sitting himself near the side of the plane.
A huge contrast to the plane ride over, when everyone was optimistic, cheery, loudly singing whatever was blasting from Spotify.
He pulls out his earphones, slotting each earbud into his ear and shifting down uncomfortably, getting ready to sleep. The lights dim, and he rolls up the cover for the window, head resting near the glass.
He's drifting, eyes sliding shut and music becoming a faraway noise when he hears a soft thump, followed by a muffled curse.
Blinking confusedly, Sergio turns and pokes his head out the seat. The aisle spotlights are turned on, and he notices the unmistakable height of one Gerard Piqué standing there, bending down to rub his foot. He's only wearing socks, but Sergio doesn't bother asking about that.
Sergio rubs his eyes. "Piqué?" He calls, and gets a grumbly noise back. "What happened?"
The other man walks down to Sergio's seat with a slight grimace. Smiling sheepishly, "stubbed my toe, don't worry your ass Ramos, go back to sleep." He reaches forward, hand resting on his shoulder for a moment.
Maybe it's the way his hand lingers or maybe Sergio's not fully awake, but he tugs on Gerard's sleeve, making the man stop from moving on to his seat.
With his free hand he pats the empty seat beside him, and Gerard doesn't say anything beyond a quick raise of his brows. He settles into the seat with a heavy sigh, and turns to look at Sergio.
Sergio shakes his head, pulling Gerard closer so he can rest his head on the curve of his shoulder. He feels his steady heartbeat against his back, the shallow rise and fall of his chest that lulls Sergio back to sleep.
And if he feels a kiss pressed to the side of his head, he doesn't say anything.
Later he wakes up with Gerard tapping his arm. He looks up and yawns, meeting those blue eyes, lips curling up in greeting.
"Hi."
"Hello." Piqué grins down, his arm still heavy across Sergio's shoulders.
Sergio pulls out his earphones, letting them dangle over his shoulders as Gerard says, "time to go, flight's landed."
They both stand, Sergio stretching up to grab his bag while Gerard walks down two rows back to his actual seat to get his.
"Are you busy after this?" He asks as they walk down the aisle out the plane.
"No?"
"Want to grab a drink?” Sergio asks. Gerard shrugs.
They go to a bar by the beach, one they both know, a small one tucked away at the corner of the beach, with a gorgeous view of the sea. It’s around 7 when they find their way there. One good thing about it was it wasn’t very crowded, especially on evenings like this, and most people there were too engrossed in their own conversations to bother about them.
They find a seat in a darker corner of the bar, two plush sofas crushed together with a wooden table in between. There’s a small concert going on, nothing loud, just two people strumming guitars and singing together, but they’ve got quite the attentive audience.
Gerard hands him his glass, holding a beer in his other hand as he slumps onto the couch beside him.
He reaches for the sliding door, pulling one side open just a crack to let in the air from outside. The owners probably closed it to save the air-conditioning from running, but a little bit was fine.
Sergio presses the rim of the glass to his lips to drink, one foot raised to rest against the edge of the table. Gerard slots back into place beside him and he squeezes an arm between Sergio’s back and the cushion, winding around his waist.
Sergio doesn’t say anything, he just continues to drink, shifting a bit to get a more comfortable position, pushing further against Gerard's side as he fixes his gaze blankly outside.
A hand runs up and down his arm, leaving lingering tingles on his skin through the cotton of his shirt, and Sergio’s eyes slide shut with a long sigh when the hand caresses the back of his neck, knuckles kneading into tense muscles, stroking the edge of his buzzcut.
“Hey.” Gerard’s voice sounds deliciously close and raspy.
Sergio tears his gaze from the sea and turns to him questioningly.
“Better win the next one, yeah?”
He huffs, small smile sliding across his face. Downing the rest of his drink, he places it on the table and reaches for the raspberry in his now empty glass and pops it into his mouth, before sinking back into the cushions, thighs pressed against Gerard’s. “No promises.”
On instinct, Gerard rubs his palm on Sergio’s knee, sliding his hand under one thigh, bringing it to rest on his own so that Sergio’s leg dangled between his.
His thumb rubs at what he knows is the lettering of a tattoo beneath, and feels Sergio exhale beside him.
Sergio closes his eyes, the dim lights of the bar gentle to his head. He listens to the waves. Gerard’s listening too, Sergio can tell from the way he tilts his head back, breaths even and face turned to the sea. Sergio lets himself have one moment, just one, to look at Gerard. The slope of his nose, curves of his cheekbones, he trails down his features with a quiet burning intensity that he doesn’t realise until blue eyes turn to him with a frown.
He shakes his head, low light hiding the blush that he knows is warming his cheeks.
The waves further out crash against the sand softly, almost like breathing. It’s a low tide out tonight. He can smell the waters, it’s salty and fresh. And the sky, the whole beach beyond the matted sliding doors is bathed in blue, with the sunset long gone, but still lingering with light.
They buy a few more drinks, before Gerard suggests they head home. Sergio agrees. But obviously, Sergio’s no asshole and he’s not going to force Gerard to catch a flight back to Barcelona in the middle of the night.
Sergio chews his lip as he waits for Gerard to unlock the car door, brain working hard as his arms shove into his jacket pockets. His body is wine-warmed and relaxed but the cool air from the beach still weaves into the fabric of his clothes. When Gerard pulls the handle and gestures for Sergio to get in, he’s still just staring at him, and Gerard rolls his eyes, snapping his fingers in front of his face.
Eyes shoot up to meet his. “What?”
“Get in.” He says quietly, nudges Sergio towards the passenger seat, one hand pushing at his hip.
Sergio complies, sliding in, and before Gerard can close the door, reaches out to grasp his elbow. Gerard startles and turns to him, eyebrows raised.
“Stay over?”
Gerard hesitates, lips pressing into a straight line, before he rests one large hand on the back of Sergio's head, leaning down to press a kiss to his temple. Sergio's eyes instantly dart around, looking for any cameras before remembering where they were, and when he finds none, leans more to Gerard's kiss, eyelids fluttering.
"Okay."
-------
Back at Sergio's place, they dump their bags on the couch. Gerard opens his mouth, ready to speak, but Sergio surges up to kiss him, right on the lips.
He feels Gerard stiffen, and he almost pulls away, ready to feign drunkenness, but then he feels hands on his waist, and a mouth opening hotly against his, and all his thoughts melt into nothing. Gerard maneuvers them to the couch, pulling away just enough to sit down, with Sergio falling into his lap gracelessly. He’s half sitting, half sprawled on his lap.
He circles his arms around Gerard's shoulders, for once taller than him. Piqué looks up at him with quick smile, hands smoothing up his back to pull him in for another kiss. It's soft and easy, sweet almost, the way Gerard cups the back of his head and tilts him just enough for their lips to slot neatly in place.
Sergio may have thought about this before, and he may have been kissing Piqué as well, but he had always imagined that it would be more of a power struggle, quick and frantic. But it's the opposite, and Sergio doesn't mind one bit.
He jerks his hips and grinds down, chuckling breathlessly when Gerard groans, hands finding his hips, holding him down while he grinds up against him.
Sergio's head drops onto Gerard's shoulders, hips rolling uncontrollably while little moans spill brokenly from his lips. They stay silent for a while, Gerard moving up and Sergio moving down. Their clothes, as restricting as it was, provided a delicious friction.
Gerard's voice is rough when he mutters a quick "almost there?"
Sergio nods frantically, crying out softly when Gerard reaches a hand between them to palm at his groin, long fingers cupping his length inside his pants. It’s warm and its incredibly hot. Sergio bucks into his palm, ass pushing down on Gerard's covered dick.
Each time he rocks down, Gerard’s hand is right there to hold him, and he feels Gerard’s own dick swelling against the crease of his ass. One more jerk, and he comes, body slouching forward, taut muscles relaxing. He feels Gerard still beneath him with a harsh fuck, and buries his head into his neck, snuggling with his arms tight around his shoulders.
Gerard kisses his hairline softly, chest still heaving as they both wind down.
Sergio nuzzles into his shoulder, putting his own kiss there.
He feels hands running up his thighs, tracing over the strong muscles bunched there, curving over the swell of his ass. Sergio spreads his knees wider, shifting until he's sat heavily in his lap.
Letting Piqué run his hands up his sides, he slides his hands into his hair, letting those soft strands slip through his fingers. Combing through, he meets Piqué's gaze warmly, smiling when Gerard closes his eyes and sinks into the touch.
"What a handsome man I have." Gerard grins.
Sergio preens, leaning to down to earn a wet smooch. He pulls away with a "really?"
"Yes." Those blue eyes roll at the obvious fishing of compliments, but Sergio sees the amusement in his eyes.
Gerard's thighs start to go numb, and he shifts slightly to try and get some blood circulating. But doing so he jerks right up against Sergio, and a moan passes between them.
"Fuck, Geri."
Gerard hums pleasantly, the vibrations bleeding straight through Sergio's body from how closely they're pressed together. His lips tilt to Sergio's ear, breath hot that it sends a shiver crawling up his spine.
"Can we fuck?" He whispers.
Sergio nods before he even registers, and yells when Gerard stands suddenly, hands under his thighs loosening. He flails, latching on to Gerard's back, said person letting out a bark of laughter with the way Sergio clings to him.
There's muffled grumbling from behind, and then, "you almost dropped me into the table you bitch."
Gerard lets him down slowly, leaning down to press a kiss over Sergio’s pout. He’s still grinning, but Sergio will take that apology for now.
He takes his hands, licking his lips in what he hopes is a sensual way, and tugs Gerard upstairs to the bedroom.
------
Gerard startles awake much later in the night, maybe even early morning.
The sheets are warm, and he has his arms full of a relaxed, sleeping Sergio that he doesn't want to let go of. But this doesn't feel right. He wakes anxious, and wonders, should he stay? Is this a one-time thing? A casual fling perhaps? Sergio does those, doesn't he?
Gerard doesn't want to stay to find out. As silently as possible, he slides out from under the sheets, picking up and wearing articles of his clothing he finds around the room. When he zips up his pants, he turns to look at Sergio, one hand running through his hair.
The clock on Sergio's side of the bedside table flashes a bright red 3:06am.
Somewhere, lingering in the back of his mind, is a conscience that tells Gerard that he shouldn't leave like that, that Sergio would get the wrong idea. But, wrong idea about what? Because as far as he understands, this is just for tonight.
He blinks in the darkness, eyes following all the curves of muscles and dip of his hipbones. He’s splayed out under the covers, face relaxed and looking three years younger. It’s a vulnerable look. Most of the time when Gerard looks at him he’s a blur of movement, talking to someone here, kicking a ball there, smiling and laughing and arguing.
Sergio lets out a soft snore, sniffling as he rolls to the side. Gerard rolls his lower lip between his teeth, hand on the handle hesitating. But he goes out the door before he can change his mind, the soft click echoing loudly in the hallway.
He quickly heads down the stairs and grabs his bag.
There’s still that nagging discomfort in the back of his mind when he pushes open the front door and leaves, but he shoves it to the back of his head.
He won’t deny, Sergio’s gorgeous. From the moment his lips met his, and then after, with his weight so deliciously pressed against Gerard, and later, hands trembling, grabbing his shoulders, moaning as Gerard’s dick sinks into a tight heat.
Those eyes, looking right at him, is something that he carries with him for a long time after.
------
Sergio wakes later in the morning, body pleasantly sore. He can still feel the press of Gerard's hands against his waist. Surely, there’ll be fingerprint marks on the more tender parts of his skin.
He stretches a hand over, and rolls into what he expects is a warm body. But he finds nothing. It's empty. He jerks upright, eyes running up and down the empty side of his bed. Sergio runs a hand through his hair, the same hair Gerard's hands ran through when he –
He shakes his head, body flopping back onto the bed.
His heart sinks. He didn't expect this. Why, he doesn't know, but when he asked Gerard to come over, he didn't expect him to leave without saying goodbye at least.
What he had hoped, was that Gerard would stay, in the morning, to the next evening, whatever.
This wasn't how it should it have gone. Sergio was supposed to coerce him to stay longer, and kiss more, and go out for breakfast together, and, and that doesn't matter anymore, because he's gone.
He lies in bed, one arm thrown over his eyes as he sighs.
It doesn't matter. He did casual relationships before, he'll get over it.
------
He doesn't get over it.
Sitting on the couch, watching a Barcelona match, he realises he doesn't get over it.
If anything he's more invested than ever. He glares daggers into the television screen when the camera pans over the man he just can't stop thinking about, zooming into his uncaring, stupid, gorgeous smile when Barcelona scores a point.
Fucking bastard. Emotionless prick.
Sergio crosses his arms and slouches into the couch. He reaches for his phone, and fiddles with it, tapping open the call icon, thumb lingering over Pique's number.
No to call, how about a text?
Saw the match, wasn't very good.
Nope, deleted.
That form was horrible, no wonder he got past you.
Not that.
I miss you.
No, no, no. Definitely not that.
Sergio groans, shoving his phone into the cushions.
This isn't good. He's supposed to be over Piqué by now. Yet he's sitting here, pining like a teenage girl, pride still horribly hurt from him leaving that night.
During training, he's off as well, and it doesn't go unnoticed by others.
When he misses an opening in a team match, Luka trots over with a slight frown, asking if he's alright. He waves him off with a smile.
And again, at some point the ball probably sailed over his head while he stood there blankly pondering about someone's dumb blue eyes. He only realises when he hears laughter. Marcelo cackles, hands over his stomach as he walks past Sergio to kick the ball back in.
"Oi captain, a little bit slow today yeah?"
He rolls his eyes and nods apologetically, and then tries to squash everything about Gerard into a trash bin in his head as he jogs back to position.
-------
Sunday night before a Clasico, he gets a text.
I can see the future. It's 0 for u tomorrow. Loser.
Sergio grins despite himself, thumb selecting and deselecting the text bubble as he contemplates what to reply.
Then your skills must be a bit rusty because we're clearly going to win.
He gets an eye roll emoji back, and in that moment, he forgets he was ever mad at the man. They haven’t talked in a while, and Gerard’s the one who texts him first. His cheeks hurt from the grin that stretches across his face.
The screen dims, before brightening again.
Get some sleep.
I'll see you tomorrow.
Sergio licks his lips, chewing on his lower lip.
See you tomorrow.
He manages to sleep just well enough.
Right before the match, in the tunnel, everyone is lining up, and Sergio's up front, shaking out kinks in his body.
This is comfortable. The usual, with just enough nostalgia for it not to be boring. He knows Barcelona, and even in the battles, it feels like family, the extended family you hate to see at gatherings, but family nonetheless.
He's passed his customary hugs and kisses to the rest of the team, so he takes a rest against his side of the tunnel, grinning down at the kid by his side occasionally. That is, until a familiar figure lumbers over. The dandy defender, as they call him, scratching at his beard with a frown as he walks down the line to his place, of course, the same spot as Sergio.
Sergio smiles brightly, all teeth, as Gerard catches his gaze. Sergio feels his heart stutter when Gerard’s face brightens and he slings an arm over his shoulders and pulls him in with a pleasant hola tió. He tilts his head sideways, ear to Sergio's lips just long enough for Sergio to say, "nice to see you."
It's a quick half-hug, but Sergio's body soaks in the contact, and his body tingles as he feels Gerard's fingers smooth over the cloth of his jersey all the way until he drops his hand.
"Lovely hair. The hairband's back." He observes, fingers moving up to tangle in the hair at the base of his neck for a second. Sergio tilts his head back into the hand cupping his head with a sigh.
"Yeah."
They spend the next few moments grinning at each other until a person in a headset walks through them, breaking their gaze. Sergio blinks rapidly, turning away from Gerard when he realises now maybe isn't the best time to pine over him.
He can hear the cheers growing louder out there, and as the signal calls for them to enter, he holds his hand out for the little boy beside him to take, and he finds Gerard's gaze again. The man raises his brows and pulls a face, which makes Sergio turn away with a laugh.
He's still smiling when they step onto the pitch, and for a moment he simply misses Gerard standing behind him in the lineup back in the national team.
Beyond the Clásico matches, they never see each other, and Sergio has grown to hate it. Before, it didn’t feel like much, because at the back of his mind, he knew he would see Gerard during international break. But now that they only ever meet and only ever have a chance to so much as exchange pleasantries is in one match or so, it weighs down on him how accustomed to Gerard’s presence he is.
They win the game.
2-0, perfect. The bernabeau sings, and Sergio's overjoyed. It's been a while since they’ve triumphed over Barca, and to win El Clásico again, makes him proud. He bites into his lip, raising a fist into the air over the spectators.
Toni runs over and he pulls him in for a cheek kiss to celebrate his late goal, eyes darting to the camera, the cameraman pulling close enough for their faces to flash all over the screen. There's euphoria thrumming through his blood, and his eyes scan over the pitch. The rain had just stopped, and a cool settled on the sweat on his skin.
He catches Piqué, near the tunnel, leaning down to grasp some of the bench members' hands, clapping them halfheartedly on the back.
Quickly, he wrings himself free from the rest, jogging over to him.
"Piqué!" He calls.
Gerard doesn't hear him, or maybe he ignores him, but he just keeps going. Sergio frowns, hand raised to wave but stopping short when he doesn't get a reaction. His feet slow on the ground, cleats sinking into the wet grass with a soft squelch.
Cold.
That's cold. He's not sure if he’s talking about the rain or the lack of reaction.
Suddenly, he feels immensely stupid. They're not a match. They never were. They were on opposing teams, and they never really agreed on anything. The national team was a chance, but Gerard's not even in it anymore.
He decides that maybe, to cut the invisible thread between them is a better way to face this situation, only to find that he was holding onto a frayed end.
When Marcelo grabs his elbow for a team picture, he tears his gaze away from the small figure of Gerard walking further and further away. No goodbye this time. Not that there ever was.
------
The next time he sees Gerard, it's a special one.
Another World Cup, another year. Spain losing just shy of the semi-finals. Obviously, it's disappointing. A crushing defeat, some may call it. And there's a whole lot of differences that can cause a team, no matter how strong, to lose a chance. A minute or a second's misjudgement, a kick timed wrongly, a fit of anger.
The opposing team won, but even they seemed a little too out of it, celebrating with only tired smiles, sharing hugs and small claps.
Sergio blindly accepts a hand reaching out, fingers clasping and tugging it to his chest.
He turns around looking at his team scattered across the field, all sharing grim, defeated looks. Sergio grimaces, one hand carving through his hair, sweat dripping down his neck into the red jersey. The captain's armband stretches tightly across his bicep, he can't ignore it, it itches into his skin, so he grabs the edge and rips it off, crumpling it into his fist.
All of a sudden, he thinks about Iker, about Fernando. It hits him out of the blue and he’s so stumped he can’t even process it. They have all left, and with just him here, everything seems to have crumbled. Maybe it was about time he retired as well. There wasn’t much left to fight for now, was there?
No, there always is. The games never stop, and he never stops, but maybe it’s time to stop. Step back and let a younger generation of similarly qualified players to take the stage, as he did back then. To himself, he scoffs and thinks, he should probably follow Piqué’s footsteps huh?
Later on, it wouldn't matter much. But in the moment, losing is the only thing he can think of. Letting down his country is the only thing he can think of. Mind repeating the whole game like a horror game play, he tries to find faults in the smallest of movements; should have ran faster, should have turned that way, tried a different tactic. In the end they were all ‘should have’s’, and it was too late.
A sigh drags out from his chest, and he bends down, hands resting on his bent knees, letting sweat droplets drip over his forehead, clinging to his lashes.
He decides not to linger around anymore, and he's making his way inside, passing the barricades when he looks up, and finds a familiar face. Standing behind the barricades, half hidden behind a pillar and a row of cameras, and Sergio's heart aches.
He hasn’t seen Gerard in forever.
The Barcelona defender stands there, hands in his pockets, watching him, waiting for him patiently.
He wipes the sweat off his face in the crevice of his elbow and hesitates for a bit. Then he shakes his head, rubs his mouth and walks briskly over. Gerard gives him a sympathetic smile, arms opening as he comes closer. He doesn't think about the cameras, about being in the public's eye in front of thousands, when he meets Gerard halfway, and melts into his embrace.
He's warm, and dry, and his heartbeat is steady and comforting when he presses Sergio to himself. His hand slides over his neck, fingers tangling in the growing locks of hair.
It's wet, and he smells, but Gerard doesn't complain when Sergio rests his head over his shoulder, chin digging into his skin. One of his hands run up and down his back slowly, brushing his shoulder blades, coming to rest at his side, near his hip.
Sergio grabs him like a lifeline, eyes closed as he leans his whole weight onto Gerard, who just holds him, hand in his hair stroking calmly.
"You did amazing." He murmurs against his head, and Sergio nods tiredly.
"Let's go home." He turns Sergio towards the dressing room, half marching him there.
They take separate flights back, Sergio with a private one with the rest of the team. Gerard, hand clasped on his shoulder, promises to meet him at the airport.
The flight back home is quiet, and honestly, Sergio cannot remember the last time this group has been rowdy, has cheered on the way back to Madrid. But that's too depressing a thought, so he settles in his seat near the window in the middle, pulling out his phone to select a playlist. He picks something soft, hoping to go to sleep.
Slipping in an earbud into each ear though, he suddenly feels a bit of déjà vu. Not really, he tells himself, the last time, there was someone else's strong shoulder he could lean on. Sergio closes his eyes and leans back in his seat. He takes a deep breath and waits for the flight to land.
When he picks up his luggage at the airport, he pulls out his phone and fires a quick text.
Just reached, wru?
Almost immediately, café near the arrival gate.
He doesn't bother texting again as he looks up, and finds his luggage coming. He grabs it, pulling it off the conveyor belt.
He says goodbye to the few still left standing around, claps their shoulders and gives them the brightest smile he can muster. "I'll see all you again soon", he tells them.
He makes his way to the cafe quickly, blissfully aware of the lack of reporters or paps waiting around for a shot of the players returning from their loss. He heard that there were a couple, but they got cleared away quickly, and he’s silently grateful. If a camera or a mic gets shoved in his face, he was going to punch it. That, or break down, and he neither is appealing.
He reaches the cafe, scanning the seats before finding Gerard.
He looks tired, dark beanie pulled low over his head. His shoulders are hunched over to make himself seem less obvious. There are two coffee cups still steaming when he reaches the seat.
"Hey."
Gerard straightens up. "Hey, c'mon sit down." He jerks his head to the seat across from him.
Sergio rolls his luggage against the wall and dumps his carry-on on top. He collapses into the seat with a heavy sigh, immediately pulling one of the coffees to himself.
They sit in silence for a bit. Sergio staring at the grooves in the wooden table, while he feels Gerard eyes on him on occasion, sneaking glances at him from behind the rim of his cup.
Sergio puts his cup down with a muffled sound and clears his throat, trying to ease the tension in his chest. "Are you going back after this?"
Gerard shrugs, "I guess."
Sergio blinks. He takes a breath, and another. He leans back in his seat, fingers fiddling with the handle of the cup. "When's your flight back?"
Another shrug.
Frowning, "you don't know what time's your flight?"
Gerard chuckles lowly. He smiles awkwardly as he rubs the back of his neck. "No, I... I guess I didn't book one yet."
"Oh."
There's a minute of more silence as Sergio picks up his cup and takes a large sip. That minute for him, however, is complete chaos. On one hand he's tired, jet-lagged and eager to throw himself into bed. On another, his mind is screaming at him, trying to process Gerard in front of him, willing his mouth to open and say something. He doesn't want him to go just yet, and it seems Gerard's waiting for an incentive to stay.
So, "do you want to come over?"
"Okay." It's an immediate reply this time.
They finish their coffees and they take Sergio's car back to his place.
Gerard says he'll drive, and Sergio gives him the keys gratefully, because the moment he slips into the passenger seat, he puts his head against the window and promptly falls asleep.
"Sergio."
He blinks awake, taking a second to get a grip of his surroundings. They're still in the car, the engine's cut off and he can see his house up front.
"Hmm?"
"We're here, let's go in." Gerard unbuckles his seatbelt, one hand braced on the center console as the other reaches over to unclick Sergio's seatbelt as well. Sergio groans, sliding down in the seat more now that there’s nothing keeping him in place.
Gerard rolls his eyes and pushes open the door, going to the back to pop the trunk, reaching in to pull out Sergio's bags. He grabs them in one hand, going over to the other side to drag Sergio out the car.
Sergio clings to his elbow, eyes blinking blearily while Gerard fumbles with the keys. He takes too long, and Sergio grumbles, grabs the set from him, leaning on him heavily for support as he jams the right one in and pushes the door open.
He flicks on the lights and stumbles in, toeing off his shoes as he goes. Gerard swivels his luggage against the wall, puts the bags down beside them and follows Sergio.
He finds him in the kitchen, one spotlight turned on, coffee machine whirring. He shakes his head in disbelief. Didn't they just have coffee? Going over to Sergio, he slides a hand around his waist, familiar, letting the older man tuck himself against his side.
Sergio feels incredibly comfortable. Gerard's lovely and solid beside him, and he sighs when a kiss is pressed to his cheek.
"You did great earlier." He repeats.
Sergio hums, not really bothering to think of much beyond Gerard's hand rubbing his hip, warming the skin there.
He tilts his head back against Gerard's chest. Closing his eyes, it feels terribly domestic. They had a one time thing, and now they're cuddling in the kitchen making coffee. His heart does a weird flip flop when he feels Gerard's lips brush over his temple. A hand presses against his hair, curling back strands that have flopped down now that there was no gel to hold it in place.
"How was it?"
"Horrible." Gerard teases.
Sergio turns with a frown, eyeing Gerard's easy smile. Somewhere in his mind he thinks Gerard looks a lot happier now than back then.
"I thought you said I did great?"
Gerard hums, feigning looking away in deep thought while his arms wrap around Sergio's chest tightly, swaying him a little side to side.
"I said you did great. I didn't say I enjoyed the game. That was painful to watch."
Shaking his head, Sergio crushes himself further against Gerard's chest, hands coming up to hold where Gerard's arms are crossed over his shoulders.
“Sorry I couldn’t win it for you.” He mumbles.
He hears Gerard’s breath stutter, but he’s a little too tired to think much of it now.
Fingers brush over his wrists. “You didn’t promise.” He replies. It’s short, but it lifts just a bit of the burden on his shoulders.
The coffee machine hisses and then Gerard's moving away, leaving Sergio to stand there biting his lower lip a little dazed, while he picks up two cups near the sink to fill up with the liquid. He fills one to the brim and slides it over to Sergio over the island counter. Pouring one for himself, he leans against the sink, hands warmed by the cup.
Sergio takes his and takes a sip, leaning over the island on his elbows. They're back where they started, and it's a conversation Sergio can't ignore anymore. It's been a long time, since then, and he really can't go on treating it like a one time thing, or a mistake of any kind, or worse, leave it unsettled.
His fingers trace the rim of the mug, breath almost loud in the silence of the room. What should he say?
There's two outcomes he can envision. One, they talk about it, and Sergio manages to get his feelings out while sparing Gerard of a heart attack. Two, Gerard does get a heart attack, and Sergio's own heart might break.
Or, maybe he just doesn't need to say anything.
"Hey, hey, don't look so serious, it's just a match, you have plenty of those in a year."
Sergio's eyes snap up and he's so taken aback by the warmth in Gerard's eyes that he's blurting out the words before he can stop. “You weren’t there this time.”
He notes that Gerard’s eyes soften just a bit, his shoulders drooping when he hears the statement. “I didn’t realise it mattered that I was there.” He says quietly. “You and I weren’t exactly close, you know that.”
Sergio knows. He knows it better than anyone else. But can’t Gerard see that he wants them to be close? He wants him to smile at him when he sees him. He wants to be the first person Gerard looks for in an event. He wants to be the one he calls late at night when he can’t sleep. It’s cheesy as fuck but maybe that’s exactly what he wants.
“Yeah, well.” He purses his lips and shrugs. “It makes a whole lot of difference when the person you’ve played beside with for ten years suddenly disappears.”
That seems to have hit a nerve somewhere, he sees Gerard flinch slightly, feet tapping anxiously on the floor. Sergio decides now’s a better time than never. He raises his head.
"Why'd you leave, Piqué?" He mentally applauds himself for keeping his voice even.
"What?"
"You know. That day after the World Cup match, that day we had the flight back."
Something flashes in his eyes, and he sees Gerard's gaze dart to a corner of the room; the doorway. He wouldn’t dare leave; Sergio just grew the balls to talk about it. He stands up and moves in front of it, effectively trapping them both from leaving.
Gerard puts his cup down, looking down at his shoes with not much to say.
“You didn’t even say goodbye.”
He’s being a bit whiny now, might need to back it up a bit. He can hear his voice crack at goodbye, and really, he wasn’t about to cry but now he just might tear up a bit.
He knows he’s throwing knives at him now, but he’s really too tired and emotional to really deal with this rationally. He looks down at the tiles on the floor, back up at Gerard who still won’t meet his eyes, and goddamn is this taking a turn for the worse.
Sergio licks his lips, worrying his bottom lip under his teeth. “When you left the national team. When you left that night. I would have been just fine with a goodbye.” He exhales tiredly. "If you regret it you can just tell me, then at least I can try to put it behind me, instead of hanging around like an idiot all the time wishing for something more."
Gerard looks at him now, those tragically blue eyes that has haunted him for years now.
Quietly, "I don't regret it."
Okay, that's a start. Somewhere inside his heart stops feeling like lead and more like a seed in sunlight. He tilts his head to the side. "Then, why did you leave?"
"I don't know. It didn't feel right." Gerard rubs at his brows, hand reaching to scratch at his beard. "I know that’s a shit answer, but fuck, Sergio I had to leave." He runs his fingers along his hairline.
"Why? I woke up alone, do you know how that feels? Thinking it meant something and then realising it was just a– a fling?"
Gerard wets his lips, slouching against the counter. He mumbles something that Sergio doesn't catch.
"What?"
"I said," he clears his throat loudly, eyes finding Sergio's, flickering away a moment after, "was it just a fling?"
Sergio opens his mouth, but at the last second he chokes and he doesn't say anything. Gerard's gaze burns through him and for once, he’s lost for words.
"Was it?" Softer.
Gerard's tense. From what Sergio can see, he's leaning against the marble but his shoulders are drawn closely, hands twisting from where they're crossed under his arms. He looks up at his face. And he finds it. A longing. Eyes begging Sergio to say it, because Sergio realises now, Gerard's been thinking about it too.
And for the longest time, it seems they've both been too stubborn to say anything.
"No..."
He moves closer, and Gerard gets the hint, crossing the small space, past the island counter, coming right in front of Sergio. One hand reaching cautiously to his shoulder, "what do you want, Sergio?"
"I want you to- us. I want us." He bites his lip, one foot sliding backwards, getting ready to move out of Gerard's way.
His heart is pounding, almost dizzy with a fear of rejection when long arms pull him in and he gasps when he's engulfed in the tightest embrace.
He clings to Gerard's back, face buried the crook of his neck. Gerard's hands tighten over his shoulders, and it's comforting and suffocating all the same.
Piqué is warm. Sergio has come to learn that. He’s an asshole, a prankster, a pain in his ass. But if he just so much as looks at Sergio he’d forget all about how much he hates his guts and just hopes he’ll smile before he turns away. His skin is smooth, and Sergio presses a trembling kiss to the space above his collarbones. His fingers twist in the hoodie Gerard is wearing, tugging it down to pull him closer.
Hands move to cradle his head and his heart soars when they cup his cheeks gently, tilting him up to look at a gorgeous face. He lets Gerard stare, eyes trailing across his whole face, thumbs caressing his cheeks. He clasps his wrists, raises his chin, and Gerard presses their foreheads together.
"Is that a yes?" He asks shakily, because he's still uncertain, and Gerard could just leave now. If he wanted to.
The Barcelona defender leans away with a smile, eyes now sparkling with happiness. "Yes.” He leans forward to kiss him softly.
He says it so easily. Sergio beams at him, pushing himself up on his tiptoes to meet him halfway. He likes kissing him. He has very nice lips and he kisses very well. He pulls away, still smiling, just for Gerard to lean down and connect their lips again, turning Sergio's head just enough to slot their lips together perfectly.
It is a sweet kiss. There are notes of familiarity, in the plush shape of his lips and in the way his hands fold against the small of his back. But it's much different from the ones before. Because this one means something. They aren't just kissing for the sake of sex.
And this is some wild unimaginable reality, Sergio thinks, because Gerard actually likes him back. Gerard, who barely spares him a brief nod during international, Gerard who irritates him and pisses him off.
And lets be real, he would really hate to be the one that pines anyway. Knowing Gerard's been doing the same, makes him feel giddy with happiness.
Gerard's beard is rough against his cheeks, and he loves it. They pull away, and Sergio tucks his head under Gerard's chin. If there’s one thing Gerard should know, it’s that from now on, he’s always going to have Sergio clinging to him. Should have checked the terms and conditions before he agreed to it.
"Are you going to leave tonight?" He asks after some time.
Gerard strokes a hand down his side soothingly. He doesn’t seem to mind holding Sergio, although it’s probably been 15 minutes in the same position. "Not if you don't want me to."
"I don't want you to."
"Alright."
Sergio nudges his head against his neck again before pulling away with a yawn.
Gerard smiles at the way his eyes crease shut, the way his toes curl and he vibrates as he stretches. It’s cute. Like a cat. "You should get some rest." He whispers, voice low.
Sergio nods along, stepping away from Gerard to stretch more. "Sleep with me?"
He puts an arm around Sergio and turns him in the direction of his bedroom. "Sure."
The coffee mugs turn cold on the countertop, but under the covers, they're pressed close together, and warmed by each other's body heat.
-----
When Sergio wakes, the first thing he thinks is that he's terribly well rested. His muscles are sore, but in the good way, when he knows he’s exerted them from a strenuous exercise.
He shifts under the covers, taking a deep breath, toes pointing out from where they peak out from under the cotton. He breathes, turning to his side. Then, he nearly gets the shock of his life when he finds Piqué beside him. It takes a while for his brain to comprehend that, no, they did not have sex. Yes, last night happened, and yes, he was allowed to look at him, hold him, kiss him awake, because he simply can now.
Mentally taking a note for the kissing thing, he takes the arm wedged between them and slides it over Gerard’s waist. Sniffing softly to clear his nose, he jerks closer until he can press his forehead to Gerard’s chest. The other man has a hand under the pillow, and looks to be in deep sleep.
Sergio glances at his sleeping face. A wave of happiness surges through him. Piqué is right here. He’s not gone. Gingerly, he combs through his hair, letting his nails scratch his scalp lightly. Then he smooths out his brows, knuckles trailing down his cheeks to stroke his beard.
He must have woken him up at some point because an arm winds around him loosely, resting heavily on his side. Not long after Gerard’s eyes open and he blinks at Sergio. Sergio grins at him, tangling their legs together under the duvet.
“Good morning.”
Gerard hums, pulling Sergio close and resting his chin on the crown of his head. He can feel the happiness buzzing through Sergio, and huffs. Unbelievable, this man.
“Is this what you expected?”
Sergio burrows into his arms with a contented sigh. “Yes.”
“Okay. Amazing. I’m glad you’re happy Sergio, now I expected a little different.”
Sergio rolls away from him with a frown, propping himself up sideways on his elbow. “What do you mean?”
A grin slides over Gerard’s face and Sergio’s eyebrows raise. Ah. His head dips a little in understanding, and immediately, he’s grabbed and dragged halfway across the length of Gerard’s body. Sergio makes a displeased noise at being moved so suddenly, and Gerard only responds with a chuckle, hands moving to slide under the hem of his t-shirt, skimming across the velvety warm expanse of his back, and Sergio leans down slightly, patting Gerard’s shoulder as he puckers his lips up for a kiss.
They spend the next few minutes kissing, hands exploring each other’s skin. When Gerard’s hand runs up the back of his thigh, almost reaching the curve of his ass, Sergio pulls away with one last kiss, sliding out of the bed.
He hears Gerard’s frustrated groan and doesn’t bother to hide the smile forming on his face.
“I know what you expected,” he purrs, reaching down to pick up Gerard’s hoodie from the floor, swinging it in the air triumphantly before pulling it over himself, “you wanted some breakfast, yeah?”
The shoulders slope down to his arms because it’s a bit too big for him. But Sergio doesn’t seem to care, he wraps his arms around himself in the early morning chill and bounces on his feet. Gerard thinks the deep blue fabric looks gorgeous on him, he can’t bring himself to ask him to take it off, and Sergio looks so soft in the morning light, hair mussed and curly, and clothing rumpled.
Piqué shakes a finger at him, grinning. “You fucking tease Ramos.”
Sergio blows him a kiss at the doorway, even throwing in a wink for a bit of pizzazz, just to see the smile grow on Gerard’s face.
tweet notification @GerardPique ”thanks for breakfast @SergioRamos👀” attached: picture of Sergio in an oversized sweater and shorts, frying ham.
@SergioRamos “welcome!😘”
@Marcelo “😮🤭”
@Marcelo “no more fight?!”