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There are green hills, the birds are singing, the river water is warm, the sun is blazing. He is running till he can’t breathe any more, then lies down and stares at the blue sky and-…
Bzzzzzzz…
Nevermind, there is an airplane passing just above his head, creating a cloudy white line, and-…
Ayyyyyyyy! Ayayayayayyyyy!
The birds start to sing louder, there is some breeze now, and he feels ticklish when a leaf falls on his nose. He feels like laughing when a squirrel passes nearby and-…
Ayyyy, amoooooorrrr, que dolooooor…
Iker snaps his eyes open and curses in all the languages he knows (that’s not a lot, frankly). Immediately looks at the electronic clock on the nightstand. 5:47am.
‘Hijo de puta!’ is his final monologue phrase as he stands up, tossing the bedsheets on the floor. He barely reaches the bathroom sink and splashes some cold water in his face, muttering utter nonsense under his nose, ‘Madre de Dios, que pena…’
Let’s put some enlightenment.
Today is Sunday. 5:4-… 5:50am already, on Sunday.
This (and by this, Iker means: flamenco alarm) happens for the fifth time already. Always on a Sunday.
First, Iker hates waking up at the ass crack of dawn in general. Second, on Sunday he is particularly picky about his waking-up schedule, which involves not waking up before 11am. Third, he kinda doesn’t possess positive feelings towards flamenco music, and definitely does not associate it with an alarm clock. Fourth, all this is absolutely relevant. Has been relevant for the past two months.
Iker has never ever seen his neighbour from downstairs but he knows that he hates him with a burning passion. He doesn’t care what his job is, nor about his looks or IQ or whatever the fuck people are interested in nowadays. He just wants his sleep. And he is gonna get it.
Iker smirks mischievously at the mirror in front of him. Puts the earplugs and goes to bed. Just wait till tomorrow, morning, asshole, is his final thought before falling senselessly asleep.
-
Iker wakes up at 4:30am to go to the bathroom and, wanting or not, he has to stay awake a bit longer for his perfect plan to work. He fills a large bucket of ice water while intensely rubbing his eyes in a desperate attempt to keep them open. Once finished, he drags himself out of his apartment and carefully locks the door before hurrying down the stairs. Knocks on the black wooden door. No answer. Oh, you’re sleeping now, aren’t you? Iker smirks and knocks louder. Still no answer. He starts furiously pressing the doorbell until he hears some noise inside. The door cracks and slowly gets opened. Iker doesn’t even think twice, nor he looks at the person in front of him – just throws all the ice water in his neighbour’s face with a loud Good-fucking-morning, dear neighbour and an obnoxious laugh.
Two seconds later, Iker regrets his actions. In front of him stands a tall and muscly figure, with brown hair and stubble, with a horse-like jaw, and-… tattoos. So many tattoos, which Iker can clearly see, since the bastard is wearing just his white (and not tight, no) boxers. (Who, the hell, sleeps in his boxers only?) Even drowned and slightly shaking due to the ice water, the guy is sleepily grinning, and Iker can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, his downstairs’ neighbour is an asshole, but an incredibly sexy asshole. (Iker shakes his head at the thought.)
‘Hello to you too, dear neighbour,’ the voice is thick and accented (Andalusian, maybe?) and Iker’s mind drifts away.
‘I-…’
‘How did I deserve the pleasure of getting a free shower?’ the guy is still grinning and Iker feels like an idiot.
‘Why, the fuck, is your alarm clock with flamenco sounds?’ ok, maybe not the best convo-starter, Iker has to admit.
‘How do you know-… oh,’ the man bites his lips sheepishly and lowers his gaze, ‘Sorry. It’s a bit loud, eh?’
‘No shit,’ Iker snorts and the guy chuckles nervously.
‘What can I say, I can’t hear it well. But you should’ve told me, hombre. I don’t want to wake you up so early.’
‘Why are you waking up at 5:45 on a Sunday morning, anyway?’
‘Ehm-…’ the man scratches the back of his head, ‘I am a bit busy the other days. Sunday is my only day off. And I-um… I go jogging in the Retiro early in the morning. I prefer to be alone – or almost alone, forgive the homeless – while running. To clear my mind, you know.’
Well, obviously, this body does not come with just sitting around and eating junk food, Iker, he shakes his head and forces an understanding nod.
‘As for the flamenco…’ the man continues and Iker makes a mental note that, obviously, his neighbour likes talking, even before 5am on a Monday, ‘I am from Sevilla. I grew up with flamenco, hombre, it’s in my blood. I spend every single second with it. Pity I can’t blast it in the nightclubs.’
‘Nightclubs?’
‘Ah, yeah, I am a DJ. That’s why you don’t hear my alarm clock the other days, probably – I wake up in the afternoon, when you’re out.’
Iker nods again. His eyes follow one of the drops sliding down the man’s chest and losing itself down the v-line and-… He coughs.
‘Ok, sorry, I-…’
‘Sergio.’
‘What?’
‘My name is Sergio,’ the man sticks out a wet hand, ‘Nice to finally meet you, Señor Casillas.’
‘You know my name?’
‘Of course I do,’ the man flashes a toothy smile and Iker feels a bit too intimidated to think rationally, ‘Everyone in the neighbourhood knows it. San Iker. The rich man who helps all the people in need. You give money to the local orphanage, help old people on a daily basis, and-…’
‘Ok, ok, cut it,’ Iker feels even more embarrassed now. First, he adores helping but he has always preferred it to be in the shadows and not discussed. Second, he feels too uncomfortable being praised by a gorgeous man (with dripping water down his incredible body), not to mention, being called a Saint by him.
‘I feel like an ass now,’ pouts the ma-… Sergio, and Iker thinks: Well, I bet you do have a nice one, to be honest, ‘I am messing up with the local idol. Fuck me.’
Iker’s eyes snap wide open and his mind starts running in an incredible speed. Did the guy just say-…
‘Anyway,’ Sergio sighs and shrugs. Iker realises that if Sergio says one more involuntary fuck me, he’d be doomed, ‘I am off to take a hot shower now, then going to bed. I have to work tonight, you know…’
‘Wait…’ Iker places his hand on the wooden door, preventing Sergio from closing it in his face, ‘I am sorry for-… The water, you know…’
‘No, no, you had every right to get your vengeance,’ Sergio flashes yet another grin and Iker’s mind starts screaming fuck me, fuck me, fuck me – and he doesn’t even know whether he’s just swearing or he really means it, ‘But, obviously, the people are right about you.’
‘Huh?’
‘You can’t do a single bad thing without feeling guilty,’ Sergio giggles and quickly places two fingers under Iker’s chin, lifting it up. Iker’s eyes glue to Sergio’s and he can feel himself drowning in the brownness and-… (this must be early hour, it has to be), ‘Stop it, it’s ok, don’t dwell on it. And I’ll try my best to keep the alarm clock down, vale?’
-
Iker doesn’t think about it a lot (no, he really doesn’t) but when next Sunday comes, he wakes up at 6.30am and realises there was no alarm clock today. He feels a lump in his throat and he just can’t explain the sour coffee taste in his mouth. The sun is still not up but Madrid’s air is, of course, already damp and hot, as he stretches his limbs on his balcony. Suddenly, his eyes try their best to focus on the blurry figure approaching his building, and, as it comes closer, he realises that’s Sergio. The lump in his throat starts burning. And that’s not even the worst thing. Sergio lifts his eyes up and immediately spots Iker with his coffee mug. Waves at him and Iker feels like paralysed but still manages a slight wave.
‘Buenos!’ shouts Sergio and the thickness in his voice, mixed with the awaking Madrid traffic, is the single most arousing thing Iker could ever imagine at 7am on a Sunday morning.
Buenos, whispers Iker to himself, and his heart hurts a bit when his eyes lose the sight of Sergio. He lets out a few curses and rushes back in the apartment, grabbing his laptop and thinking a bit before hastily typing.
Sergio DJ Madrid – Google search.
There are several articles, adverts, notices, and a picture. Of Sergio – his neighbour Sergio – with the widest grin ever, with his enormous white headphones on, and his long fingers twisting God-knows what buttons. Iker hurries up to follow the link where the picture is, and finally discovers the address of the bar Sergio is supposed to work in. Quickly scribbles it on a sheet of paper before taking his clothes off and rushing under the shower. The second the water starts running on, he hears some loud sounds, so he immediately switches it off. Singing. Someone is singing. Flamenco. And it hits Iker like a truck. Sergio is singing flamenco. Under the shower. And it sounds beautiful. Even more beautiful than the birds in Iker’s dreams.
Iker doesn’t even realise he is sitting on the edge of the bath-tub, smiling at Sergio’s singing. Shakes his head once Sergio supposedly finishes his shower and, sighing, Iker runs his own water on.
-
Iker enters the club at 3.30am when the show is supposed to be at its end. (He doesn’t want to admit he’s getting old but, yeah, he might as well be.) Spots Sergio almost immediately, apologetically smiling at a girl before kissing her cheeks several times (Iker wonders what those lips feel like) and patting her back. It feels like an old sentimental movie when Sergio turns around and stares directly at Iker, grinning almost instantaneously while trying to get closer through the crowd.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Hey,’ is all Iker manages to mutter out, ‘I-… I wanted to-…’
‘If you wanted to see me so much, you could have come home to a paella. My mother sent some just yesterday.’
‘You could’ve invited me,’ Sergio laughs at Iker’s snap.
‘And you’d have refused,’ they stay silent for a few seconds, staring at each other’s eyes, ‘What are you doing here, Iker?’
Iker gulps slowly when Sergio repeats his question and adds his name at the end, then shrugs. Sergio smiles even more radiantly and surprisingly brushes his knuckles over Iker’s (already burning) right cheek. Iker’s eyes are still glued at Sergio’s smiling ones.
‘Do you want to go grab a beer or something?’ Sergio’s voice comes out as a barely audible whisper.
‘Thought you had some paella to offer,’ Iker bites his lips and Sergio’s face immediately lightens up.
-
Eleven hours later, Iker wakes up by the sound of a soft flamenco song echoing in his ear and he thinks that it’s just a dream but it’s not. It’s not a dream when he slowly opens his eyes and there is a pair of shining brown ones, just centimetres away from him.
‘Good morning, San Iker,’ Sergio smiles again and peppers Iker’s jawline and neck with kisses, while still humming the same soft flamenco melody. Iker purrs, half-closing his eyes.
Those lips feel-… Sergio feels-…
Iker bites his own lips, desperately trying not to moan. Sergio chuckles while lifting himself up and jumping out of bed.
‘Come on, sleepy-head, get up!’ Sergio shouts from the kitchen and immediately starts singing another flamenco song afterwards. Iker smiles in the pillows. Maybe, just maybe, he is getting used to that alarm clock.
He already is.