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Chapter Text

Las Rozas was still and quiet this early in the morning. He'd caught an early flight and seemed to have arrived before even the guys who lived in Madrid had rolled out of bed. Gerard strolled leisurely through the training grounds feeling a bit melancholic. These next few weeks would be the last he spent in red. Hopefully he'd at least go out with a bang and not a whimper.

He made his way to the locker rooms, still indulging in some harmless self-pity, and stopped dead in his tracks at the sound of shuffling. Maybe his teammates weren't as lazy as he thought. He peaked around the doorway to spot an unflattering buzz cut atop a tattooed neck.

"I didn't think your hair could get much worse, yet here you are proving me wrong."

Sergio startled and whipped his head around. A fond yet arrogant smile curled his lips.

"I tend to do that. Speaking of which, I think I'm owed a 'congratulations', Geri."

"Oh, for dodging a red card after pulling that wrestling move on Salah? Sure,congrats."

Sergio's face darkened. He quickly pulled on his cleats with muted anger and stormed out. Gerard sighed. They were off to a fine start.

~
After that incident, Gerard avoided Sergio for as long as he could, working on some simple exercises on the far side of the grounds. But as more and more of the guys made their way over, he couldn't avoid team workouts. Iniesta was who finally got him out on the same pitch as the rest of La Selección, after Gerard was unable to find an excuse that didn't make him sound like a sulking teenager.

Out on the grass under the warm summer sun, Ramos put on his most captain-y voice, "Alright boys, two teams of six." Gerard still couldn't believe he'd gotten the captaincy over Andrés. It wasn't that he deemed Sergio not up to the task, but Iniesta was beloved and uncontroversial in a way Sergio could never be. Just another example of El Madrid being favored as the teacher's pets they were.

"Piqué," Gerard had thought they would keep up with the mutual cold shoulder but with a World Cup coming up, he guessed that wasn't in the cards. "We haven't played together in months and if we plan on being a formidable defense we gotta get used to each other again. You're with me."

He was right, but that didn't mean Gerard had to like it—and from the scowl on his face, neither did Sergio. However they were nothing if not professionals (he mentally snorted), so he got in position without making a fuss.

The match was rather uneventful since the sun was still high in the sky and they were all a bit lethargic. Him more so than the others, apparently, as his marking of Diego Costa was sloppy as hell and the ball ended up rolling into the net. Gerard blushed with slight embarrassment. Ramos was seething.

Once the game started up again and the rest of their team had advanced on the opposite side's turf, he came up to Gerard. “Piqué,” Gerard turned, ready for a ‘get your head in the game speech’ but was shocked to find Sergio’s expression much more intense than he was expecting. "I don't give a fuck about your Catalan separatist shit," his voice was gravel. "But while wearing Spain's colors, you play for Spain. None of this half-assed garbage."

Gerard couldn't believe what he was hearing. Typical. Any minor mistake he made was immediately attributed to his politics. He expected it from the media, even from the fans, but not from his teammates. Not from Sergio. He had to refrain from spitting in the fucker's face.

"You gonna boo me too? It'll make you real popular," He sneered.

Sergio's face contorted slightly. He looked kind of guilty. But he said nothing, so neither did Gerard.

The match got heated after that, but the fire was directed inwards in their team instead of towards their rivals. Both Ramos and him turned it up to 11, they competed fiercely to clear a ball before the other could get there, to tackle more adversaries, to be better. The cold war between them culminated in a painful collision set off by them both going for the same header. They fell to the ground, clutching their heads in pain while the others looked on in disbelief at their childishness. When his eyes met Sergio's, they both wore sheepish expressions

"I think the fact that I don't have hair to act as armor anymore made it worse," Ramos muttered.

Gerard couldn't help it. He burst out laughing. The image of Sergio going around comfortably headbutting people because his rock-hard head-of-hair had his back was too ridiculous. Soon Sergio was losing it too, throwing his head back heartily.

Everyone around them was perplexed. Out of the corner of his eye, Gerard could see Isco mouthing 'what the fuck' to Lucas. They didn't get it. They never did. Sergio's stupid-ass comment had been an olive branch. And by laughing along, Gerard had accepted it. He could never stay mad at Sergio for long; one second they'd be at each other's throats but then the asshole would go ahead and do or say something sweet or funny and Gerard would forget whatever insensitive shit he'd said to piss him off in the first place. Sergio was usually the first to reach out, it's not that Gerard didn't want to, his pride just got in the way. He was grateful he could count on Sergio to do it for him.

He wiped the tears from his eyes, got up and extended a hand to Ramos who was still on the ground. The Sevillian grasped it firmly and without hesitation and shot a small smile up at Gerard.

As the rest of the players returned to their respective positions, Gerard took a moment to bend his head back, eyes closed, and hum happily as the soft afternoon sun caressed his face. Maybe he could enjoy his last days in La Selección after all.

Chapter Text

During mealtime, the mess halls at Las Rozas were noisy as hell. Footballers are a rowdy bunch. The walls rumbled with the tumultuous sound of over twenty men somehow having over fifty different conversations at once. Laughter roared all around and bits of chewed up food were shot out as if they were high-speed projectiles. To top it off, one of the younger players would inevitably have the brilliant idea of blasting terrible music for all to suffer through. In a word, the mess halls were, well, a mess. Gerard loved them.

How could he not? He was a party-loving kind of guy. If the people around him were having fun, so was he. At the moment, though, he was being outshone as the elderly-life-of-the-party by none other than Sergio Ramos. From the table, Gerard looked at the captain who was dancing with Lucas Vázquez, the two of them apparently trying to out-stupid the other, showing off progressively ridiculous moves. Gerard was both embarrassed and amused.

They seemed to have worked up quite an appetite for they were soon at the table scarfing down whatever was put in front of them. Sergio had sat down opposite Gerard with Lucas to his left, facing Diego Costa.

A gruff voice with a hint of a Brazilian accent spoke up, "Hope you're as graceful on the pitch as on the dance floor, Ramos." His bearded face was obviously playful.

"Graceful-er than you, you fat tank," was Sergio's witty comeback.

Costa pointed out that 'graceful-er' wasn't a word, and the back and forth continued. The rest of the table watched on in delight, grateful for the free entertainment the two provided. Gerard's smile, though, was a bit forced. He felt an uncomfortable twinge in his chest. A bit like...jealousy. His face heated up at the realization. It wasn't like he couldn't stand to see Sergio having fun with anyone who wasn't him, he wasn't a psycho. He hadn't felt anything but bubbling laughter at the sight of Sergio and Lucas. But that was because they were teammates, it was expected for them to get along. There was even a big/little brother aspect to the relationship. Sergio's banter with Costa, however, was more familiar. Bitter rivals on the pitch who exchanged friendly jabs off of it? Gerard's lips curled downwards. Now that Costa had joined them on the national team, Gerard felt a bit left out. This was the last time he'd get to be with Sergio as a teammate and he couldn't help but feel like he was being replaced.

His true emotions must have seeped through his mask of merriment, because when he looked up, Iniesta’s worried eyes were on him. Gerard made a vague gesture with his free hand in an attempt to wave off the concern but it was too late as his downtrodden state had already attracted less wanted attention.

“Why so glum, Geri? Afraid Diego’s making off with your archenemy?” Lucas’ tone was jovial and held nothing more than a good-natured teasing edge, but having him so casually hit the nail on the head threw Gerard off his game. His mouth automatically went for the sarcastic quip, but his panicked brain couldn’t keep up so he ended up stuttering embarrassing nonsense. “Nah, what? No-o.”

The hall erupted in hysterical laughter. Sharp-tongued Geri finally tongue-tied just by implying that he had a crush on Sergio Ramos. It was a riot. Even Gerard joined in so as not to make things more awkward for himself. The one solemn face was that of Andrés, who instead wore a pinched expression. The perceptive son of a bitch. However, after working up the courage to casually glance at Sergio and check that he hadn’t made the poor guy uncomfortable, Gerard noticed that in spite of his blusterous howling, something seemed off about him, too. His eyes, maybe. The mirth didn’t seem to quite reach them. Gerard shook his head. He was imagining things, Sergio was having a great time. Just like everybody but him.

He waited a good while, until no one could link his actions to Lucas’ comment, to haul ass and finally get some peace. He usually loved chatting with his teammates until long after their plates had been cleared, but tonight his thoughts were racing and he needed to sort them out. Or bludgeon them to death with a bottle of malt liquor. Either/or. Since he had been among the first to leave, whoever he’d gotten assigned as a roommate probably hadn’t made their way to their room yet, so Gerard could expect some temporary solace there.

~
Wisps of steam enveloped Gerard’s naked body as he turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. Eyes shut against the suds that ran down his face, he blindly groped along the walls in search of a towel and almost slipped and broke his neck in his quest. His hand eventually made contact with his fluffy savior and he happily dried himself off. No longer vision-impaired, he went up to the sink to brush his teeth so he could finally go to bed and put an end to a long day and a rollercoaster of emotions. He wiped the fog off the mirror and looked at his reflection while chewing on his lip. The shower he’d gone for in lieu of alcohol had done him good, no doubt. He no longer looked as caged and jumpy as he knew he had in the dining hall. But he didn’t look like a million bucks either. The faint lines around his eyes were signs of his inner turmoil. The annoying thing was that even he didn’t know what the turmoil was about. This being his last stint on the world stage played a part for sure. Even more so, the harsh rejection of his countrymen that pushed him to leave the national team in the first place. But there was more to it, he knew, and Sergio Ramos was at the center of it.

At the thought of the devilish madridista, Gerard’s traitorous mind conjured up images of the man out of its own volition. His ugly tattoos, his endless parade of ridiculous hairstyles, his boring white jersey. His smile, his kind eyes, the warmth of his hand on the back of Gerard’s neck. Worst of all, it showed him glimpses of how their relationship would be like once summer ended. Months upon months of no contact whatsoever, with only a couple of Clásicos a year to break up the monotonous loneliness. The meet-ups he so yearned for, soured by the forced and unnatural approach they had towards each other after letting their bond grow stale and die.

Gerard took the tell-tale sting in his eyes as a cue to derail that haunting train of thought. With the stiff determination of somebody trying to outrun their own thoughts, he curtly opened the door to the bedroom. His steadfast stride was cut abrupt and violently short, however, by the sight the door made way to reveal. Sergio Ramos, lounging on the far bed with headphones on, arms behind his head, cool as could be. Gerard’s faux-confidence dissipated instantly and he almost doubled over in surprise and horror, but caught himself right on time and settled for only crossing his arms over his chest protectively. That was when he was promptly reminded of his state of undress, as he had nothing more than towel on his hips to guard his modesty. Fucking perfect.

The movement must have caught his eye, because it was then that Sergio looked his way, music still playing, lips slightly parted, eyebrows raised and eyes half-lidded. These soon widened, though, once they took in the Catalan’s half naked form. Gerard felt absolutely mortified, experiencing a sense of vulnerability previously unbeknownst to him under Sergio’s gaze. However, his shame abated somewhat as bewilderment settled in upon reading Ramos’ expression more carefully. Gerard could swear there was a hint of appreciation in it. His heart stopped.

With a great deal of effort, he started himself up again and began hunting down a shirt. He would not be stupid enough to make himself heartsick by making a big deal out of things that were not there. Hell, he wasn’t sure what it was he thought he saw, or even what he wanted it to have been. His rationalizing was echoing so loudly in his head that the simple task of locating some clothes was taking far longer than it should have. Thankfully, Sergio eventually took pity on him and chucked a jersey at Gerard’s face.

“There, now I won’t have to look at that ugly mug of yours anymore,” he teased with a cheeky grin while Gerard scrambled to pull on the garment. Next up: pants.

“Well, I’m not sure what you’re doing looking at it,”and other things, Gerard’s mind added oh so helpfully, “in the first place.”

“You’re slow on the uptake today. Lacking oxygen up there or something?” Sergio curiously observed his teammate as he trashed the room in his never-ending search for a full outfit. “I’m your roommate, Einstein.”

Oh, no. Gerard’s face heated up as he froze up. He’d thought he could deal with whatever it was about Sergio that was driving his heart wild, as long as he had the space to figure things out by himself. But that plan was out the window since Sergio would now be by his side day and night. On the pitch, they’d be a fixed unit, working in tandem as Spain’s center-backs, only for that partnership to hold fast after dark, too. Gerard’s mind would be constantly fogged up by Sergio’s inescapable presence; any soul-searching would inevitably fall to the wayside as Gerard knew he’d be too caught up in drinking in the Andalusian’s company.

“I—” Just as Gerard had been about to verbally reply to Sergio’s revelation after his minor inner meltdown, a pair of boxer shorts hit him straight in the face, halting him mid-sentence and leaving his finger pointed up in the air comically. He faltered only to continue in spite of the cloth muffling his words. “You really don’t wanna look at my ‘ugly mug’, do you?”

Sergio laughed out loud. “If that were true, I wouldn’t have requested you as my roommate, would I?”

Gerard tossed the underwear off of his face. “What?”

“I pulled rank and I asked to bunk with you,” Ramos replied while chuckling at Gerard’s blatantly surprised expression. But after shifting on his feet a bit, Sergio’s disposition turned more serious. “I know that this is your last tournament with Spain, and, well,” he sighed and looked up at Gerard with such fondness that it made his chest ache. ”I’m gonna miss you, Geri.”

Gerard’s heart thumped vigorously against his ribs. He didn’t know what to say. A warmth spread throughout his being, acting as a balm for his previous anxieties over his relationship with Sergio.

Gerard felt…loved.

Breaking out into an adoring smile, Gerard threw his arm around Sergio’s shoulders. He nosed at the older man’s temple and breathed out giddily, “Of course you will. I mean, who else is gonna keep your obnoxious merengue ego in check?”

Sergio huffed out a laugh and leaned into his embrace. Gerard didn’t know exactly what that all-encompassing feeling tugging viciously at his heartstrings was. All he knew for sure was that he’d do anything for it to never, ever go away.

Chapter Text

Gerard’s body burned with exhilarating exertion. Lopetegui had had them on the pitch for two hours straight in preparation for possible additional-time matches in Russia and he was feeling every second of that extra half-hour. Not that he was complaining; he took the exhaustion as evidence of his hard work. It reassured him that he was doing everything in his power to take them far in the following weeks. His work ethic, however, wasn’t the only reason he was grateful for the ache in his muscles and his heaving chest. Fatigue, as it turned out, was a great way of keeping his mind off of certain other forms of physical exertion. He sighed long-sufferingly.

It had all started a few days ago when he’d woken up to a familiar tightness in his boxers. That was nothing noteworthy in and of itself, it happened to guys all the time. He’d deal with it in the shower. The surprise came when Sergio had casually slapped Gerard on the ass in a common display of football camaraderie before going down for breakfast. It was then that Gerard felt it. A twitch.

The following morning he aroused to find himself in the same comprising situation as before and he realized with distant horror that his pillow smelled like Sergio, since the two had watched TV on it before going to sleep. Just like they had the night before that. Fuck.

A solution, then, had presented itself: avoid direct physical contact with Ramos and all would be just fine. It would be, Gerard would make it be. However, he came upon roadblocks immediately. For one, he’d never realized before just how touchy of a guy Sergio was. Every friend he had, he hugged, he kissed, he affectionately patted on the cheek. Gerard simply could not get away from the guy’s grabby hands without coming off as a rude weirdo. He ran into a similar problem trying to keep him off his bed. Gerard first tried splaying himself across its entire width and length — which wasn’t all that difficult given his height — so as not to leave an inch for Sergio to settle into. He should have known that wouldn’t work, though. Sergio, without batting an eye, had simply hauled Gerard by the armpits and carved out a place for himself. Gerard’s plan B, which consisted of scattering all of his personal items (from tangled up chargers to dirty gym socks) throughout the comforting, was also met with Sergio’s unbelievable disregard for people’s personal space. In the end, the only way to rid himself of the Andalusian bedbug he’d acquired proved to be getting on Sergio’s bed before Sergio could make his way to his. Apparently, it wasn’t that Sergio had a soft spot for Gerard’s bed in particular, nor was he doing it for the express purpose of annoying his teammate as Gerard had been convinced of after witnessing Ramos’ doggedness. No, Sergio seemed to enjoy the company, was all. Since it got the man’s scent off of his pillow, it worked just fine for Gerard.

Or so he thought, for when he got off of Sergio’s bed and crawled into his own, the Sevillian chased him into his dreams regardless. Erotic images plagued his mind. Vague and abstract, but decidedly depicting his roommate. He saw endless miles of tattooed skin, plush lips parting. He lost himself in pools of chestnut brown. Come daylight, he hadn’t been the least bit surprised at the bulge in his pants. He’d just sighed deeply as he came to terms with the fact that there was no way around it. He had a problem on his hands.

Said problem was currently coming his way, sweet with sweat and pink from vigorous exercise. Gerard mentally cursed.

“Hey,” he clasped Gerard on the shoulder and squeezed gently. “C’mon, help me stretch,” he requested, already lying down and getting in position on the grass.

“What? No,” Gerard whined. He was going for annoyed but, in reality, it was fear that gnawed at him. Being that close to Sergio, touching his bare skin and making the older man moan…Gerard’s throat suddenly felt real dry. He’d been purposefully avoiding Sergio after practice as of late, precisely so as not to end up in the sticky situation being his stretching partner put him in.

“Yes,” retorted Sergio with faintly miffed steel in his voice. “Everybody else is taken. So come down here, Piqué, and get your dirty hands on me already,” he waggled his eyebrows.

Despite what Ramos’ words did to him, Gerard snorted at the ridiculous expression. Reluctantly, he got on his knees and began working on Sergio. He distinctly didn’t dwell on how filthy that sounded.

He got ahold of the Sergio’s rock hard calf and lifted it until the muscle was as taught as a bow string. Sergio’s brow pinched in discomfort, but Gerard paid no mind. Partially because the pain was par for the course, but the way the warmth and smoothness of Sergio’s skin mesmerized him also played a part. Fuck, he was pathetic.

Not long after, what he’d feared most came to be. The moans. Stifled but very much audible, they were deep and breathy, punctuated by low grunts. They drove Gerard wild. He bit his bottom lip instinctively, but released it as soon as he realized what he was doing, not wanting to broadcast his feelings.

Right as the sensory overload was proving simply too much for Gerard to handle, Sergio sat up and muttered a quick thanks while resting his large hand on the nape of Gerard’s neck. The relief was overwhelming, but short-lived, as before he could take in what was happening, Sergio had flipped them and was taking Gerard’s legs into his strong grasp.

Gerard tried desperately to get out of this disaster waiting to happen. “Wait, you don’t have to. I’m good, reall—”

“We can’t afford to have you get injured so stupidly, you big baby. I’m stretching you and that’s that.”

Gerard’s head plopped down harshly onto the grass as he resigned himself to his hellish fate. He’d had a good run. Won El Triplete more than once, a World Cup…Yeah, he had no regrets as he lied facing his imminent death at the hands of unfathomable embarrassment.

That was until that embarrassment became a tad more imminent. As Sergio caressed his inner thigh to work on his abductors, something stirred in Gerard’s groin and he immediately leapt to his feet, subtlety be damned. He had to get outta there.

“Wha—What did I just tell you, Gerard?” Ramos was fuming, but he couldn’t care less.

“YoudidenoughIfeelgreatgonnahittheshowers, see ya,” and he was fucking gone.

~
As much as he wanted to just crawl into a hole and die, Gerard really did hit the showers. He couldn’t waltz into their room covered in as much filth as he was so, once at the facilities, he stripped with perfunctory efficiency and got underneath the sharp spray. The scathing temperature he decided on served the double purpose of distracting from his less than pure urges and soothing his sore muscles. Even though he in no way regretted high-tailing the hell away from Sergio’s dangerous touch, he really should have done a better job of stretching. He felt like shit all-over. He’d have to solicit Andrés’ help later, and have him agree to a strict ‘no questions asked’ clause.

The soft plopping sound of feet padding on the wet tile-floor drew Gerard’s attention.

“Thought I’d join you,” said Sergio with a terse smile. He had a towel riding low on his hips and nothing more. Fucking perfect. “So, how’s the water pressure?”

Gerard could only sigh in despair. He’d come here to get away from Sergio’s tantalizing flesh only for the asshole to show up flaunting even more of it. It seemed that no matter what he did, Gerard could not run away from this. He had to face his attraction, quite literally. But he so didn’t want to. Sergio and he were rivals, teammates, friends. They bickered and mocked and laughed at the same jokes. They had the type of relationship Gerard could always count on to provide him with some entertainment, whether it came from riling up the madridista or maybe just enjoying the surprisingly engaging way he had of telling the simplest of anecdotes. Despite what appearances and the media would have you believe, they simply liked each other, and Gerard had no idea how sexual desire would factor into that casual friendly bond they shared. So he’d just decided that it wouldn’t. Lust? What lust? Deep down he knew just how adolescent the attitude he’d taken up was, but he wasn’t ready to let go of that safety blanket of denial quite yet.

The blanket was unraveling violently and in hurry, however, mindless of Gerard’s reluctance to give it up, as Sergio let the towel pool at his feet and made his way over to the showerhead next to his. Gerard could feel himself blush up to the tips of his ears. He’d seen Sergio naked a thousand times while sharing locker rooms and the like, but after the dreams he’d been having he saw the Sevillian’s body in a new light.

Firm taught muscle lined the entirety of his lean figure. Gerard’s eyes paused to drink in powerful legs, a well-defined six-pack, thick biceps and a built chest. What entranced him the most, though, were the broad shoulders from which a dense path of colorfully miscellaneous tattoos broke off. He ached to trace them with his tongue, languidly, over the course of a wonderfully lazy afternoon in bed. He could picture it painfully vivid detail. They’d make out for hours on end, without a care in the world, as the fiery Spanish sun set behind haphazardly drawn curtains. Then the dim sunlight that leaked in would set Sergio’s hair alight as the older man weighed Gerard down and took ahold of his legs, like he had earlier on the pitch. Only this time he’d hook them over wide shoulders before leaning in and—.

“Pass the soap, would you?” Sergio’s deep voice brought Gerard’s filthy daydreaming to an abrupt end. Floored by the sharp turn into forbidden territory his thoughts had taken, Gerard made no sign of having heard Sergio. After a few beats, the older man grew impatient and took matters into his own hands. He got up real close to Gerard so as to reach for the soap on the other side of him and, in doing so, brushed Gerard’s ass with his cock. It wasn’t much, but after his fantasizing, it proved more than enough to get Gerard rock-hard in the span of second. His eyes grew three times in size and he immediately slammed the water shut, clutched a towel and scurried to the door, precariously slipping and sliding all the way.

“Gerard! Stop running away from me, dammit! What’d I even do?!” called out a familiar Andalusian accent, but it barely even registered in Gerard’s brain through the fog of lust clouding it.

~
Once the door to his room shut behind him, Gerard ran to lock himself in the bathroom. He needed to deal with his erection now, before his roommate got back. He stopped in his tracks when he saw Sergio’s bed out of the corner of his eye. For a split-second, he considered jacking off to his intoxicating scent, but whatever basic human decency hadn’t been corrupted by the wave of lust he’d been hit with stopped him. Instead, he scrambled into the bathroom, dropped his forehead onto the door as soon as it closed and hastily shoved a hand into his boxers to grasp his cock. He hissed. After ignoring the hunger in the pit of his stomach for days, he’d needed this so badly.

He thought of Sergio, bringing to mind all the moments over the last few days he’d thought he’d been erasing from memory but had, in reality, only been filing into the darkest recesses of his mind. Sergio’s warm hand patting him amicably on the thigh, just a little too close to his groin. The hypnotizing way his throat moved up-and-down while greedily gulping down water after training. His soft lips parting in the dark while sleeping opposite him. Gerard’s pace quickened and his grip tightened, bordering on pain, as he bit his lip, close to drawing blood. A big cock against his sensitive skin, coming tortuously close to Gerard’s empty hole. His free hand went down the back of his shorts and he eased a finger into his asshole, imagining, wishing it was Sergio’s. He saw his teammate and friend roughly shove him against the door, biting at the nape of his neck, and then grabbing Gerard’s hips with enough force to bruise in order to line up his cock and fuck Gerard senseless. He whined pitifully before coming all over the wooden door.

He panted.

So. He gulped. He was attracted to Sergio Ramos. There was no way around that.

But that was all it was.

Right?

Chapter Text

As much as Gerard was often loath to admit it, Madrid was beautiful. Barcelona left it in the dust, obviously, but staring up through the windshield at the buildings rushing by, with their intricate designs back-it by a startlingly blue sky, he couldn’t help but fall in love with the city before him. Between Sergio’s Andalusian accent purring on about some restaurant nearby, the gentle rocking of the federation car, and the lively urban landscape that unfurled all around, Gerard felt blissfully untroubled.

Ever since he’d admitted to himself that he found Sergio attractive, it was like a weight had been lifted off his chest. Yes, he thought the guy was totally bangable, so what? Ramos was an objectively handsome man—plenty of adoring fans would attest to that— and Gerard’s interest in the same sex had made itself known some time ago. He’d come to terms with his sexuality, and finding his hot male friend, well, hot was normal, expected even. It’d in no way have to change their dynamic, since Gerard would never act on it. He’d been freaking out over nothing.

The one worry nagging at him now, which he’d been successfully putting out of mind for the duration of the ride, was the press conference they were on their way to. They were leaving for Russia in a few days and this was to be their last public appearance in Spain before taking off. A pretty standard responsibility for a footballer, but if Gerard dwelled on it too much, nasty butterflies would rustle in his stomach. Press conferences for him were a more combative affair than for most of his colleagues, especially when on International Duty. That was in great part his own fault, if he was being honest with himself. While he considered his outspokenness to be among his best qualities, it often got him into some tight spots. He would tweet out something mean (yet true) about El Madrid, or maybe imply that Catalonia should succeed, and the media would be on him like starved wild dogs on a helpless rodent. It would then be up to him to fend them off as best he could. He usually did a pretty piss-poor job of it and instead only dug an even deeper hole for himself. He sighed. Needless to say, he was not looking forward to it.

He wouldn’t let their admittedly shitty destination dampen the journey, however. Covering his mouth as if they were on the pitch in front of cameras, he whispered over to Sergio, “Tío,” his teammate looked his way. “You notice how our chauffeur kinda looks like Florentino?”

Ramos peered over to get a good look at the man through the rearview mirror, going for subtlety but failing miserably. Their driver was a lightly overweight man in his late fifties, with thinning hair, a rotten disposition, and the saggiest, droopiest face Gerard had ever seen. Outside of Florentino, that is.

Sergio shook his head while scrunching up his nose. “Nah. Too handsome. And happy.” A grimace. “And competent.”

Gerard giggled, prompting Sergio to smile back at him. And if Gerard got a little bit too caught up in his warm, laugh-creased eyes, well, it was probably just Sergio’s infectious good mood.

~
“Cheer up, hombre. You look like you’re on your way to the slaughter house. Which, I mean, you are, but strolling in there with a grin on your face is always a great tacit ‘fuck off’,” was the advice Sergio gave outside the dreaded room that harbored countless cameras and reporters.

“True, true. Easier for you to say, though, Capi. They love you. I guess they value platitudes more than authenticity”

“Hey, I’m authentic,” Sergio retorted indignantly.

Gerard snorted. “As authentic as your nose, maybe.”

Sergio huffed but cut the banter short, as the conference was about to start. He gave Gerard a light push. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. C’mon, let’s knock ‘em dead.” And with a shit-eating grin he was out the door, onto the brightly lit stage beyond.

Gerard puffed out his chest and followed suit. Sergio’s shitty pep talk had unbelievably actually lifted his spirits somewhat and he walked out before the sea of reporters with more confidence than he’d been expecting. He softly shook his head and smiled. Only Sergio.

The interrogation opened with some pretty softball questions. "How are you two feeling with the World Cup so close?" Nervous, but excited. "What do you think your chances are?" Great. But as no good thing can last in the hands of sports journalists, the breed of questions Gerard had been bracing himself for reared its ugly head.

A small man with a smug aura piped up to burst Gerard and Sergio’s comfortable bubble. “And how are you two,” he paused for effect, “getting along?”

They sighed in unison. It always came back to this. If Gerard had to guess, he’d say it had all started right where they were now, only eight years earlier, with World Cup glory on the horizon. A Catalan reporter had asked Gerard if he could answer in his mother tongue and Sergio, who he’d barely known at the time, had chimed in requesting his questions be posed to him in ‘Andalusian.’ The prick. Gerard had laughed, amused by the audacity, and hadn’t thought much more of it. He’d been about the only one, unfortunately, for soon Spain would be flooded with gossip of how two of its champions were out for each other’s blood.

Gerard would be lying, though, if he said Sergio and he hadn’t fanned the flames. Not on purpose, mind you. Stirring up shit seemed to be a natural byproduct of their personalities, was all. Gerard would throw shade at El Madrid, and Sergio, never the wilting daisy, would strike back with a comment equally as catty. Their squabble would make the normal rounds though the papers, and eventually come back to bite them in the ass in situations like these. Course correcting by reassuring the media that they did, in fact, get along just fine and that their bitchy remarks were mostly in good fun proved to be a futile endeavor. The media liked the narrative they’d concocted, that of Spain’s two center-backs forever locked in vicious battle, so they stuck with it, and any testimony that undermined it fell on deaf ears.

“Well,” Sergio’s deep voice cut in with a humorous tone. “If we got on half as bad as some people would like to believe, I don’t think we’d be able to sit here together without breaking out into a fistfight.” The tension in the room immediately dissipated as everyone laughed along at Sergio’s cheeky answer. He continued. “No, I mean, we have a good relationship, and like Gerard said some time ago, it’d be great if people saw that someday.” Don’t hold your breath.

Good. One disaster artfully sidestepped by Sergio’s experience with dealing with the press. But as Gerard’s shit luck would have it, another was just around the corner. The line of questioning he’d most been hoping he’d be spared from sprung from a reporter’s lips like a vile coil wrapping itself around Gerard’s neck.

“Piqué, how do you think your Catalan identity is going to factor into your performance in the World Cup?” Wondering if thumping his head against the desk would come off as rude, Gerard sighed. It had to happen eventually. Just as he’d been drawing air into his lungs in preparation for a sardonic rant that was almost surely a bad idea, a voice to his left stopped him.

“Sorry for cutting in,” Sergio made a gesture both to the audience and Gerard. “But I’m gonna repeat myself here by saying that I believe Piqué has poured his sweat and tears into La Selección and that interrogating him like this this, well, I don’t think anyone can say he’s done anything to deserve that kind of treatment.” That shut everybody up, and probably saved Gerard from having to deal with yet another controversy so close to the World Cup. He was struck by a wave of affection. He looked over at his teammate and smiled softly in gratitude. It made him feel warm inside to know Sergio had his back.

~
After the conference—which, thanks to Sergio, hadn’t been nearly as horrific as Gerard had feared— they were allowed to go out for a cup coffee nearby before heading back to Las Rozas. As Madrid was Ramos’ city, Gerard followed his lead into a ritzy-looking café downtown. Midafternoon on a weekday didn’t seem to be its busiest hour as only a few lonesome business men dotted the large lounge. With their chances of being harassed by fans relatively low, Sergio and Gerard snugly settled into a small table to their right.

“We’ve got a cheat day left, right?” Sergio asked him as he picked up the menu. “’Cause after having to deal with those reporters’ insightful questions all day, I’m starving.”

“Yeah… I could use a pick-me-up, too,” Gerard replied rather absentmindedly, as all his attention had been sapped by the way sunlight streamed lazily though the window and colored Sergio’s skin in warm, sweet tones.

Sergio flipped through the menu. “What the hell’s foy-eh?”

“It’s pronounced foie,”Gerard corrected him out of habit, but he was barley listening anymore. He was too caught up in how cute Sergio looked when his face scrunched up in confusion. It flooded his chest with fondness; similarly, he thought, to how his smile could shoot Gerard over the moon. The guy’s most insignificant gestures and off-hand remarks had a way of brightening up the greyest of Gerard’s days. At times, he could hardly believe how the man’s very presence consistently brought forth both comfort and elation.

The thought took shape in Gerard’s mind organically, with tranquil smoothness. I love you.

The realization should have been piercing, life-changing, earth-shattering. It was anything but. Gerard was more surprised that he hadn’t figured it out earlier, if anything. Sergio made him feel things unlike anyone else; Gerard craved his attention as if it were air; the idea of losing touch with him once he left the National Team brought on a fucking panic attack. It all added up. Gerard could have laughed at how he’d been so hung up on what his attraction towards the Sevillian would bring about for their relationship, when he should have been asking himself what it implied already existed, as it was only a symptom of a much, much more eminent emotion: love.

Gerard Piqué loved Sergio Ramos. He was in love with Sergio Ramos.

“Oye,” Sergio waved a hand before Gerard’s vacant stare. “You okay?”

“…”

“Gerard.”

“…Ask me again, later, would you?”

Chapter Text

Gerard was staring at Sergio from across the locker room, mustering up the courage to put his plan in action. Nobody was paying his uncharacteristically still behavior any mind, since he’d been in stuck in booting-up mode ever since it’d dawned on him that he was in love. The realization had set the gears in his mind in motion as he mulled over how he should deal with his newly discovered feelings. He’d become so utterly absorbed in the dilemmas of his hypothetical love-life, that he could hardly focus on anything else and had therefore gotten rather quiet as of late. His teammates had initially pestered him about his sudden introversion but after being dismissed with unconvincing platitudes countless times, one by one they’d all dropped the issue and waited for whatever was up with their friend to resolve itself. All except Iniesta, Gerard corrected himself with a grimace. No matter how many times Gerard waved off the well-intentioned Castilian, he kept popping up in Gerard’s peripheral, with an understanding smile and a free shoulder to lean on. Gerard was torn between hugging the guy ‘til he popped and throwing him off a cliff.

In spite of his friends’ attempts to get him to open up, Gerard’s unofficial vow of silence held fast as a plan had started to hatch underneath the surface. The first question Gerard had posed to himself was whether to do anything regarding his feelings at all. Should he put himself out there in the hope of attaining long-lasting love and happiness, but at the same time risk the most intimate form of humiliation? Or was it preferable to stew in his feelings for eternity, until they eventually morphed into vitriol resentment and rotted him from the inside? For a guy like Gerard, it was barely even a question. You could call him all sorts of things, but a coward would not be on the list. He took chances, spoke his mind and faced the consequences. He would not shrink in the face of potential heartbreak, it just wasn’t his style. Besides, even if he ended up facing harsh rejection, he was leaving the National Team in a hair’s breadth and would therefore have all the time in the world to wallow in his misery far, far away from Sergio. So, he was all in.

With that out of the way, the conundrum of how and when to approach the object of his affections took precedence in Gerard’s mind. The smart choice, he knew, was waiting until after Spain’s World Cup stint came to an end. However, that option came with a kink as if things went their way, the tournament would take four weeks to wrap up. Gerard was not even close to being that patient of a person on the best of days, and now his restlessness had been exacerbated by frustration at himself for having wasted so much precious time. Even if Sergio agreed to date him (his fingers crossed out of their own volition) they would never be able to spend as much time together as they had on International Duty, and since that phase of Gerard’s life was coming to an end, they had squandered all of it. He never let that unhelpful line of thought go on for too long though as, hopefully, they’d have a future to look forward to, instead.

“Sergio!” he waved him over. As the other man made his way through the crowd of half-naked Spaniards, Gerard wiped his sweaty palms on his shorts and went over the plan in his head. After coming to the conclusion that he simply could not wait a month to find out whether his heart would be validated in its convictions or stepped on like a bug, his window of opportunity had diminished considerably. They left for Russia in the morning, so either he confessed his undying love in one of the least romantic countries he could think of, or he ripped the band-aid off right this instant. Not wanting to put even more on the captain’s plate during the tournament, he opted for the latter option.

The plan he’d then come up with had to take into account two possible scenarios: one in which his feelings were reciprocated…and one where they weren’t. When it came to choosing a location, privacy was of the upmost importance for either. If Gerard was to be rejected he at least wanted to avoid an audience, as even his bravery had its limits. And if Sergio miraculously felt something for Gerard in turn, well. He was hoping things might progress to a point where closed doors were typically a requirement. This was where them being roommates came in handy. Then there was also the question of when exactly. He’d considered waiting until right before they went to sleep so as to ensure there’d be no interruptions, but upon further thought, he’d realized that wouldn’t be entirely fair to Sergio. If he didn’t feel the same way about him, Gerard would be forcing the poor guy to spend the next eight hours awkwardly locked in a room with the man he’d just turned down; and that turn of events would be hardly ideal for Gerard, either. So late afternoon — once practice had wound down but before supper started — seemed like the best course of action. All he needed then was an excuse to get Sergio up to their room, and one had presented itself in the form of an opportune tennis match being televised at seven.

Sergio made his way to Gerard, hair damp and skin flushed from the shower. Gerard had to fight the itch to kiss his pinkish nose. Instead he simply posed, “Ready?”

“Let’s go,” replied Sergio as he gently laid his hand on the small of Gerard’s back to lead him out the door. At the bewitching touch, something inside Gerard contorted painfully and he sent out a silent, heartfelt prayer that things please,please turn out well for him, in the end.

~
By the time they made it to the room they shared, Gerard’s poor heart felt like it was a beat away from ripping straight through his chest. He took closing the door as an opportunity to face away from Sergio and take a steadying breath. The next conversation he had would inevitably change Gerard’s life, for better or worse. He suddenly felt sick.

“What channel?” called out Sergio through a yawn, obnoxiously oblivious to his friend’s inner turmoil. Gerard had to remind himself that the guy didn’t know any better and suppress the urge to whack him on the back the head.

He instead approached him slowly, as if Ramos were a skittish woodland creature, sat down on the bed next to him and gingerly removed the control from his lax grip. Sergio followed the movement with childlike confusion and lifted his gaze to silently ask Gerard what the fuck was wrong with him.

It was now or never. “Serg—” Gerard’s voice cracked and he fought down the blush he could feel storming his face. He’d get through this if it killed him. “Sergio. I need to talk to you about something.”

“Okayyy. I thought we were gonna watch the match.” Sergio took on a slow, soft tone as if he thought Gerard was going to crack at any moment.

“I lied, okay? Keep up.” Gerard mentally swatted at himself. Snapping at Sergio was hardly going to make things go any smoother.

“Geri, what’s this all about?” His expression was a picture of both exasperation and subtle concern.

Gerard took a deep breath, opened his mouth with stern determination…And pussied out at last second. Rather than calmly lay out how he felt in an adult manner and wait patiently for Sergio’s reply, he lunged himself forward with unbound desperation and an utter lack of grace to crash his lips against Sergio’s. What could he say? Words are hard; kisses are easy. However, as soon as his brain caught up with what the idiotic body attached to it was up to, Gerard pulled back as if he’d been electrocuted. Fuck. Not good. He’d meant to ease Sergio into seeing him in a different light slowly, like placing a baby in bathwater. Instead, he’d thrown the fucker overboard into the Dead Sea without a life-jacket. Gerard felt like crying. He braced himself for Sergio’s understandably furious reaction and hoped to get it over with quickly so he could break down and weep in private. He was such a fucking idiot.

Sergio was still staring at him with faraway eyes. Not in disgust or anger, Gerard realized with overwhelming yet timid hope, but in careful contemplation. His head tilted to the side slightly as he licked his lips. Then, the corners of his mouth dipped in a gesture of approval and he nodded. Next thing Gerard knew, his head had been encased in large warm hands, stubble was faintly irritating his face, and his mouth was being ravaged by a skillful tongue.

Gerard let out a disbelieving whimper of hard-earned triumph. Sergio was kissing him. He reacted immediately and clutched at Sergio’s shirt in frenzied passion. Sergio took the hint and broke the kiss to pull it off. No sooner had tanned skin been exposed, Gerard’s hand gravitated towards his torso as if pulled by some unseen force of nature. He caressed every ridge, every bump until Sergio was shivering. Always giving as good as he got, the Sevillian tugged on Gerard’s jersey until it came off and proceeded to pepper kissed across his bare chest. Gerard’s heart twisted arduously in joy. Not long after, Sergio’s lewd journey up his exposed flesh had made its way up to his neck, which he promptly lavished with wet kisses. At the sharp sting of teeth, Gerard yelped. The sound detached Sergio’s lips from his skin and the older man met his eyes with burning intensity. Gerard’s breath caught at the sight of big black saucers eclipsing tiny rings of brown.

Sergio sprung forward and fell flat on top of Gerard, who was now sandwiched between his love and the springy mattress. The Andalusian pecked him on the corner of his lips and rested his forehead gently against Gerard’s.

“You—” A ragged breath. “You got lube?”

Gerard shook his head as much as he could without dislodging Sergio’s. “Nah. We got hand-cream in the bathroom, though.”

Sergio reluctantly got off him and with an appreciative look at Gerard’s debauched state murmured, “I think we both agree that that’ll have to do.”

He chuckled at Gerard’s enthusiastic nod and headed into the bathroom. To get hand-cream. So they could fuck. Gerard could hardly believe it, he was so happy. So many years wasted.

Sergio quickly rushed back into the bedroom, brandishing the sought-after moisturizer victoriously, and Gerard broke into a dopey smile. The Andalusian delicately placed his hands on Gerard’s bearded jaw to render upon him a deep kiss, before kneeling on the bed and flipping him over. Gerard tensed in anticipation. The feeling of Sergio’s weight settling on top of him, of the older man draping himself across Gerard’s sensitive skin, pushed out a breathy sigh from his lips — as did the titillating mental image of a familiar, muscular, tattooed back slowly and possessively obscuring Gerard’s naked body from any hypothetical prying eyes.

Sergio worked him open while Gerard squirmed underneath. In between shudders, an amusing thought popped into his mind: an imaginary conversation in which he informed his incredulous twenty-year-old self that, one day, he’d let the captain of Real Madrid fuck him up the ass. He huffed out a laugh.

Sergio halted in his dutiful work. “I hope you’re not laughing at me, buddy.” His tone was light-hearted but held an undercurrent of insecurity.

Gerard awkwardly turned his head to smile sweetly up at him. “Nah. I’ll tell you later.” And with that, Sergio went back to pushing Gerard further and further to the brink of insanity with his ceaselessly teasing fingers.

Eventually, Gerard decided that he had had enough and raggedly screamed out, “Sergio Ramos, would you fuck me already!”

Sergio erupted into giggles. “Thought you’d never ask.” He lined himself up but paused. Gerard could’ve killed him. “If you really wanna butter me up though, how about you let out an ‘Hala Madrid’, for good measure.”

“Sergio,” he warned.

“Alright, alright.” He placed his tattooed hand on top of Gerard’s own and squeezed tenderly.

The air soon sweetened with the whimpers and moans brought about by deep, punishing thrusts that split Gerard wide open. The sensation of Sergio’s cock sinking into him again and again as he writhed uncontrolledly on the sheets made him feel exposed, raw, owned in the most intimate way. What really drove him out of his mind, though, were the heartfelt caresses and innocent kisses that sporadically accompanied the rough shows of strength. As the squeaking of the bedsprings got ever more deranged, Gerard’s world exploded into pure pleasure and joy.

~
Gerard lay splayed out atop Sergio, the sticky sweat that lined both their bodies weaving them into one singular beautiful being. He idly traced the tattoos that adorned the shoulder of his beloved and smiled at nothing in particular. His chest was so overflowed with glee that it felt on the verge of bursting wide open and showering the room in the splendorous light of his love.

“I’m so happy I’m here,” he whispered, rustling the fine hairs on Sergio’s chest.

“You are?” was the response he got. He froze in terror. That was far from the sweet nothings he’d expected in return. Vile made its way up his throat. He couldn’t have misread things so badly, he couldn’t have. They were together. It was done. He was staring to hyperventilate.

He thought back to try and find his mistake. That’s when it hit him. He’d never actually said the words. He’d taken the easy route and gone straight to jumping Sergio’s bones. How could he be such a fucking idiot! Making out with someone and telling them that they’re the love of your life aren’t exactly synonyms.

He was done for. The ravenous afternoon they had shared would be all Gerard would have to warm him for the rest of his cold, lonely, miserable life. He looked up at his love to savor this last drop of happiness.

He was taken aback by Sergio’s expression. It was anticipatory, anxious, and vulnerable. He was waiting for a response. An affirmative one. Gerard’s heart soared.

“Yes,” he said in a voice a bit too loud for the quiet atmosphere that reigned in their tranquil room. “Yes, yes, yes, yes.”

Sergio’s smile at that one word was almost painfully ecstatic and he leaned in for an emotional kiss.

The smile was still there when the madridista pulled back and licked his lips. “A plane from Madrid to Barcelona is what? An hour, hour fifteen?”

Gerard giggled, high on the incomparable euphoria of being loved back by the man of his dreams. “Don’t care,” he pecked him sweetly. “However long it is, I’ll take it every day for the rest of my life, if that’s what it takes.”

“Me too, you big drama queen,” Sergio’s tone was soft with reverence in spite of the teasing nickname. He held Gerard close. “Me too.”

They left for Russia in the morning, but World Cup victory was the furthest thing from Gerard’s mind. He was simply content that even though his time in La Selección was drawing to a close, he was going out not with a whimper, but a bang.

~end.