Watashi tachi ha utatta 'Kesshite Tandoku de Aruka Nai' saigo no tame ni no yo

Distance, chapter one

2009-01-04T00:54:14Z

Prologue

Title: Distance, chapter one
Rating: R
Pairing: Lucas Leiva / Fernando Torres
Disclaimer: Untrue

31st December 2008
(Nine months earlier)

It's New Year's Eve. There's nobody out on the streets. I can't say I blame them. It's the wrong side of freezing and all manner of alcohol beckons from the many tower blocks.
'How long are we going to be out here?'
'Until midnight! Don't you want to see the fireworks?'
He throws back his mane of blond hair and laughs delightedly, running crazily down the middle of the road and raising his arms to the falling snow.
'Where are we going?' I call to him.
My voice evokes a cloud of white in the air. I draw my jacket closer around me and jog after him, my feet crunching along the encrusted sidewalk.
'I don't know!' he cackles.

His manic delirium is infectious. Before long I pound through the backstreets of the city as quickly as he, shrieking along with him. The snowfall begins to thicken. I close my eyes as the cold breeze slaps my face, following the sound of his frenetic laughter. I finally clatter to a standstill. As I double up, wheezing, I make a mental note to tell Pellegrino; the most strenuous, wonderful workout - make the boys run tracks whilst they're laughing their bloody heads off.
I straighten and find my breath, only to have it instantly whisked back away from me by the scene that meets my eyes.
Of course, he's taken me back to the ground. He comes here a lot on his own, saying, I'm just checking to say if it's still there!

He stands in front of the Shankly Gates, looking up at the sky between the bars. Sparkling through the blackness, emblazoned with silvery frost, are the words YOU'LL NEVER WALK ALONE. I walk forwards and he turns to face me. Snowflakes kiss his white cheeks and the breeze teases his white hair.
'It's nearly time,' he says.
He smiles.
I unwind the scarf around my throat and take off my gloves. He does the same.
I touch his frozen lips with one finger.
His smile broadens.

A clock chimes somewhere far away. On cue, a thousand whistles slice through the still air and fantastic bouquets of colour bloom above us, spattering the inky black sky with a sensation of brilliant reds and royal blues; ruby purples and opaline greens.
Contrary to Lucas' initial wish, we see next to none of this as we lie on the pavement outside the ground, most of our clothes abandoned in the middle distance.
Goosepimples prickle my skin, and I guide Lucas' warm palm over my thighs and the small of my back.
His breath comes in sharp bursts, ghosts of the firework explosions.

'Are you cold?'
'No.'
'Me neither.'

He sighs elatedly as I press my mouth to his neck. I feel his hand on the back of my head.
'Just tell me when.'
He hesitates, repositioning himself on the unyielding frost. He looks back at me. His clear grey eyes say it all. I curl over, my arm above my head. He takes ahold of my hand and shivers as I wrap my tongue around his girth, the snow falling on us all the while. He exposes his beautiful pale throat to the skies as he moans in ecstasy, his hair encircling his head like a platinum halo.
'Can you do that again?'
I can.
'So what else can you do..?'

Present day

What an idyllistic scenario. If only it could have lasted at least a month into the new year. As it happens, what we had worked so hard to build began to fall apart as we left the year of it's foundation.
Now I sit on the edge of somebody else's bed with my knees together and my head in my hands as I try to take in what I have just done. Not only have I thrown my own my own relationship into jeopardy, but also an equally delicate and diffident one belonging to another.
Iker lies on his side with the covers wrapped around him like a cocoon, breathing deeply, sound asleep. Several crystal champagne flutes stand on the dresser. I don't know what happened to the bottle(s?).
What I do know is that I have to get out of here right now.
The bedsprings creak as I get up. Iker stirs, but rolls over and begins to snore gently. I throw my clothes on, feeling incredibly dirty and promising myself to shower for a lengthy period of time as soon as I return to my room.
I head for the door, and just as I grip the doorknob an unbelievable, all-consuming migraine hits me like a freight train. My hands fly to my temples and I stagger and keel over backwards, smacking my head on the dresser.

Stars dance before my eyes as I fall fitfully into unconsciousness.

distance

2008-12-27T23:13:31Z

Title: Distance
Rating: PG
Pairing: Lucas Leiva / Fernando Torres / suggested
Disclaimer: Untrue

So what are you doing now?

Eating microwave popcorn.

Are you thinking about me?

I'm talking to you, aren't I?

Yes but are you thinking about me?

I can't really not think about you, can I?

You know what I mean.

Oh. You mean am I smothering myself in popcorn butter and wishing desperately that you were here to lick it off me?

Something like that.

Hm.

Don't forget about me, will you?

I won't forget you. I've already told you.

Am I whining? I hate whiners.

Mm. I do too.

So. Have a good night, yes? Dream of me.

I'll try. I've had a little to drink.

You're drunk.

Not drunk. Just... cheerful.

Please don't drink, you know how it upsets me.

Yes, well. I'll try my best. Goodnight.

I close the window on the laptop and stretch lethargically. Then I turn to face the person laying on the bed behind me in my hotel room, seductively smoothing the white linen sheets with one hand, holding an empty champagne flute in the other. I reach over for the bottle of cuvée de prestige on the dresser and fill the flute. His eyes never leave mine. The second the mouth of the bottle leaves the rim of the glass he drains it, leans forward and throws his arms around my shoulders. He kisses me forcefully, his hands twisting the damp towel tied at my waist.

The night grows darker as my phone lies ringing but forgotten beneath the bed.
The message alert blinks on.

Poison: Two

2008-09-13T22:19:48Z

Prologue
Chapter One

Title: Poison, Two
Rating: PG
Pairing: Iker Casillas / Xabi Alonso
Disclaimer: Harmless fantasy!

'What're you checking your watch for?'
'Because I'm bored shitless. How long does this thing go on for?'
'Sh! You're being really rude, you know.'
'I don't particularly care. I'm nipping out the back for a slash; I'll see you in twenty, yeah?'
And then there's the mutters of disgust from everyone in the row as he lurches clumsily in the general direction of the fire escape.
Hey, guess what?
We're going on holiday in three days. A long weekend in the Seychelles. Even by our admittedly low standards it should be quite nice. A bit of re-bonding time, I reckon. We're going to try some role playing. I'm slightly dubious actually; we're going on our second first date. I have a grim feeling that he's not going to take it at all seriously. Something along the lines of 'Hey sweetie, I'm Julian and I'm a hairdresser from Brighton'. He'd better play the fucking game, that's all I can say.

- 'So what do you want to do when we get there?'
'Learn to ski.'
'What?'
'I'd like to ski.'
'You do know where Mahé is, right?'
'Sure. Somewhere in Austria.'
Oh my God. He's an idiot.
'Alright. I'll tell you what. You can ski... if you book. Go on the Internet, and search for ski resorts in Mahé. Go on.'
And he leaves the table. -

All of which comes back to the fact that I've booked us a holiday in the Seychelles.
In an effort to rekindle a frozen flame beneath the covers, I have our names on the honeymoon suite in the most beautiful hotel. OK, so I'm hoping Iker's sensitive enough to appreciate all the trouble I've gone to for this, and doesn't simply regard this as an extravegant opportunity to nail me on a slightly softer bedspread.
He is capable of being gentle. I know - I've been there. After the first few bumpy miles, we broke ourselves into each other. He certainly became comfortable enough to start using whipped cream and chocolate sauce. Chocolate sauce as lubricant, which I'd be all for if a) he'd have told me what it was beforehand, and b) if he'd deigned to inform me that my arse would smell like Mars Bars for the next couple of weeks. It's a damning experience to get changed before and after a game to choruses of sniffs and people mysteriously getting the munchies.

Rachael scribbles in her little brown folder and peers at me over her wire-rimmed glasses. I fidget restlessly on my hard-backed chair, look longingly at the bean bag in the corner, and repeat to myself, 'that's for children, dickhead'. She smiles at me.
'When Iker comes to me, he sits in the bean bag chair.'
I say nothing.
'He also plays with the train set.'
I snigger to myself. 'He's such a child.'
'Do you like that in him?'
The grin vanishes from my face. Sometimes I don't mind Iker acting like a big baby. It's a pretty defining characteristic of his; coming to me with oil and asking me in whinging tones to rub it on his chest, or finding it hilarious to call David Villa at two in the morning and breathe heavily down the line for ten seconds before hanging up.
But the for the majority of the time, I just wish that he'd bloody well grow up. We're both adults here. I shouldn't have to feel like a child molester every time we sleep together.
Rachael reads my expression.
'Shall we leave it here for today?'
I get up to leave.
'Yeah. I need to speak to Iker. See you on Thursday.'

Poison: One

2008-09-05T22:47:19Z

Prologue

Title: Poison, One
Rating: R
Pairing: Iker Casillas / Xabi Alonso
Disclaimer: Harmless fantasy!

Let me start at the beginning.
Erm, give me a minute... where was the beginning? We just kind of fell together, over time. Let me rephrase. Let me start at his beginning. That would almost certainly be the first time we shagged. Ha. I remember that. I had a fag on, actually, and my main concern was not leaving ash on the bed. Which wasn't ours.
Everything about it was wrong from the time (two thirty in the afternoon) to the initiation ('Fancy a go in the spare room?' - Iker), but I don't think I'd have changed it. It might have been extremely coarse, but it effectively underlined how comfortable we were together. In theory, anyway. In practice, that makes me sound like I'm properly up-myself. Oh, we're so comfortable...

Let me set the scene.
Iker is my baby. You laugh, but sometimes this metaphor can cross to the literal world. Do you regularly mop up your live-in lover's vomit? I do. How romantic. But I put up with everything he puts poor little knackered old me through, because we are in LOVE!
God, I'm so pissed.
Right. It's fag time. Fag Number Sixty Nine of Thursday the Second of September Two Thousand and Eight.
The door slams. Perfect. He's too legless to use a) the handle or b) the key. Oh, my head. I'm not up for this tonight. There's no use attempting to slink off towards the bedroom alone though; I'm far too wise for that. Iker simply cannot distinguish between inebriation and indecent arousal. He'll want a shag first but my head's killing me.
I'm not scared to leave. He won't batter me or anything like that. But I almost feel like I have a duty to him; to stand by him. One of us has to be the strong one. But, you see, this is it. If I were as strong as I am so obviously desperate to make out, I would walk straight out of a miserable, unrewarding relationship such as the one that ours is descending into.

Fag Number Seventy. I cough spasmodically.
I can hear Iker banging around in the kitchen, perhaps searching for a well-hidden can of lager or half-finished bottle of wine. He forgets that I never keep alcohol in the house when it isn't being drunk.
'Iker. You'll find nothing in there. Come in here and let me get a look at you.'
'Fffucking hell, I'm wasted. You go on top 'cause I'm smashed.'
I smother the embers of my fag with a cursory sigh and half-carry his large, drunken frame up two flights of stairs.
Whoever said that the romance was dead?
Well, welcome to the real world, Mr Smart Arse Poet. This is our fucking romance.

'Iker, I can't do it all for you. Dig your hips inwards!'
'I can't. I'm too tired.'
'Shall we stop then?'
'No, I won't sleep. Please, just, can't you, sort of... lean?'
'Not really, no!'
'Ah please! Just, you know, spread your legs a bit wider.'
'Iker, it's not physically possible.'
Groans.
Struggles.
Collapse.

This is, at the moment, the full, abysmal picture of my sex life.
Anyway. I'll see you in person on Saturday. It's just easier to say all this as it comes to me to a tape recorder instead of straight to your face. I'll drop the tape round by reception in the morning. I'll have to go now. Cheers for listening. Xabs out.

Poison: prologue

2008-08-23T22:27:12Z

Title: Poison, prologue
Rating: R; languagey :)
Pairing: Iker Casillas / Xabi Alonso
Disclaimer: Harmless fantasy!
A/N: I'm taking a tentative step into Xabs/Casi. Ideas and feedback gratefully recieved!

'Another glass of wine?'
'Are you trying to get me drunk?'
That warm little wicked hint of laughter.
'Now why on Earth would I need to do that? I learnt you were easy a long time ago.'
'So my innocent devotion and eagerness to please translates as... easy?'
'Bullshit! Show me where innocence comes into it! You could fuck before you could walk!'

To the ears of a less hardened individual, it may seem as though my lover is little short of an arsehole. But then the less hardened individual doesn't have to be with him. I, on the other hand, have endured countless star-strewn, moonstruck nights with him, and the occasional nuggets of filth from his sweet red lips have led me to the belief that he is a childish, obsessive, over protective, slightly arrogant, foul mouthed, brash, sweet-hearted, beautiful satyromaniac. In fact, everything but an arsehole.
He sits beside me on his squashy settee, shamlessly plying me with wine under the fruitless impression that if he gets me plastered then there's oral on the not-so-distant horizon.

'It's a good job I know you. "You could fuck before you could walk?" Have you used that in red light districts?'
'Does it sound like a red light district line to you? It's a simple nightclub line. I've got about a thousand of simple nightclub lines. Only several tens of red light ones. Why? Do you think it should be upgraded?'
'Are you asking me this seriously?'
'Do you not give a shit?'
'Are you pissed? Because you're talking nonsense.'

Iker cackles and drains the dregs of his fifth glass of wine. I'm so used to him charging off at a tangent like this, and normally I find it incredibly amusing to humour him until he descends into a drunken snooze on my shoulder. Tonight, however, I'd like him semi-sober, if at all possible.
'Coffee?'
'More wine.'
'I don't think so.'
I wrench the bottle out of his slackened grasp. He moans at me.
'I wish you wouldn't behave like my bloody carer.'
'Stop acting like a retard, then.'
The coffee perculator bubbles into life. I stand with my back to the counter as Iker lies back against the arm of the setee, massaging his temples.
My Iker is funny and kind and sunny natured, but if I'm completely honest with my opinion, I think he is developing a hellish drink problem. I have a vague idea of how it will spiral, too. It starts outside of the season, like now, but when it begins to ease itself maliciously into the new season's odd weekday, I will panic for him.

But when I try to talk to him?

'Sh. Give your tongue a rest for just a few minutes. God you're gorgeous, do you know that? Your eyes are beautiful. Just be quiet for now, kiss me now, we'll talk in the morning, I promise. Just kiss me now. Touch me here...'

As if I can just look away. I can resist anything but temptation, as Iker rapidly deduced during the first dew-fresh weeks of our relationship. I swiftly became a whore to his broad, shining body and greedy hazel eyes, and it was mere seconds down the line that I became party to his barely controllable penchant for oral sex.

I place the mug of steaming black coffee on the table.
'Are you going to drink that?'
He rubs his eyes resignedly. 'If you insist.'
'That's a good boy.'
'Say that again; something happened.'
I sneer at him. 'You letch. Drink your coffee before I pour it over your head.'
He reluctantly lifts it to his lips, but not before saying bluntly: 'you know, we should be using this time for sex. I fly in three days. I won't see you for ages.'
I laugh openly. 'I'm not a machine, Iker. You can't just jump on top of me when and where you choose.' I shift uncomfortably. 'It has to be right for me.'
'Mm. There's that. Or you could just be a bit of a frigid, self-righteous prude.'
He raises his eyebrows and leaves the room, grabbing the half-empty wine bottle on his way and leaving me standing in the middle of the floor not quite believing what I'd just heard.

amarinimo @ 2008-08-23T21:00:00

2008-08-23T21:03:30Z

God it's cold in France... trying to write...

Hiatus

2008-07-28T21:24:13Z

I am, um, hiatus-ing for two weeks while I holiday in sunny Saint-Germain. Enjoy the unnatural Sun currently circling the country. xx

Harassment in the Workplace

2008-07-19T22:21:32Z

Title: Harassment in the Workplace
Rating: PG
Pairing: Iker Casillas / Xabi Alonso
Disclaimer: If this were true, many girls would be very happy indeed. :)
A/N: Little bit of harmless fluff, in a futile attempt for me to find a character for Iker Casillas.

i. In the Changing Rooms

Xabi felt eyes burning the skin between his naked shoulder blades.
'Hurry up and get changed, will you? Time stands still for no man,' he said, smirking.
'How about for two men?' came the soft purr in reply, much closer than anticipated.
'Go back over there!' Xabi pushed backwards onto Iker's firm torso.
'But I'm changed.'
'You're shirtless.'
'It's dark outside.'
Xabi grinned and shook his head. His hair tickled Iker's chin as the taller man breathed over him. Strong hands caressed Xabi's waist through the crisp, expensive cotton. Xabi sighed in mock impatience.
'Get back over there' - he gave Iker a playful shove - 'and put your shirt on.'
Iker responded by massaging Xabi's hips insistently and gently nipping at his right ear. 'All right. In a minute. Or two.'
He pushed Xabi harder to the wall and settled himself. 'You can't get away now, can you?' He rubbed himself against the back of Xabi's thigh.
'Someone will come to lock up.'
'Not for ages yet. We're not the ones upstairs drinking the champagne. Let's enjoy ourselves down here instead.'
'It's a changing room.'
Iker chuckled into the back of Xabi's head. 'Do I detect a snob somewhere in there?'
Xabi flushed. The blood didn't go to his face, either.
'No. But strange people get naked in here.'
'I know.' Iker's voice descended into tantalising whisper. 'Hot, isn't it?'
Xabi stood firm as Iker's tongue snaked it's way into his ear.
'You're fighting me,' Iker murmured. 'That's hot, too.'
Xabi turned and placed his hands of Iker's shoulders; two pairs of chocolate brown eyes locked. Xabi leaned in close and brushed Iker's cheek with his own.
'Are you to stop being so stubborn now?'
Iker smiled.
Xabi laughed.

'Go and put your shirt on.'

ii. In the Boardroom

'There's nobody in here, though!'
'Close the door!'
'No, I'm going to sit in the big chair.'
'Honestly, you're like a child. Come away.'
Xabi pouted. Iker ran a hand through his hair, weakening at the protuberance of Xabi's soft shell-coloured lips.
'You have a key.' Xabi continued.
'It's because I'm trusted.'
'Ah. That's sweet.'
Xabi ran the length of the boardroom, trailing his fingers along the smooth, polished oak of the table. He slipped himself into the red velvet-lined chair at the very end.
'Come and sit with me, Iker!'
'What's got into you?' Iker grinned as he strode over to Xabi. 'What happened to Mr Rules & Responsibility? Feeling rebellious, are we?'
'You should be in charge. You're the captain.' Xabi placed a delicate stress on the final two syllables.
'Huh.' Iker sat beside Xabi on the edge of the table. 'So, if I'm in charge, then I should be the one sitting in the big chair.'
Xabi gazed up at him.
'You want to sit in my chair?'
Iker leaned towards him.
'I'm the captain.'
There was a electrical pause. Iker shifted.
'Want to lie on the table?'
Iker smiled.
Xabi laughed.

'I knew you'd stop being so righteous eventually!'

iii. On the Pitch

Abandoned flags fluttered across the ground like oversized scarlet butterflies. A single scarf spiraled, it's colours alternating rapidly; like a wind ornament in a twister. Xabi caught it in one hand and draped it loosely around his neck.
'It's kind of creepy with nobody here.'
Xabi looked over his shoulder. Iker stood between the goal posts, bouncing a battered football.
'Where'd you get that?'
'It was under one of the seats.'
Xabi picked up a leftover Spanish flag and wrapped it around his shoulders. 'So you've been scavenging.'
Iker shrugged and continued his rhythmical bouncing of the ball, keeping his gaze level with Xabi's. Xabi couldn't help but think how much Adidas would like this on a billboard or in a magazine; himself cloaked in national colours and Iker framed between the sticks in an empty stadium. A stray flag entangled itself at the back of the net. Iker snatched it away, shook it out and lay it down in front of him. He looked back at Xabi and gestured.
'What, here?'
'Why not?'
'I can think of several reasons.'
'Are they going to stop you?'
'No.'
Xabi charged forwards into Iker's embrace. They kissed fiercely, red and yellow emblems billowed around them. They couldn't have paid for a more patriotic backdrop. Iker wrenched off his gloves and slipped his hands inside Xabi's shorts. It wasn't a warm night, and Xabi shivered slightly at Iker's icy touch. Xabi lifted Iker's shirt and felt goosepimples raise themselves over his skin, already sweating with lust.
Iker eased his full weight onto Xabi and the latter's knees buckled. They sank, still deep within each other, into the folds of the flag's vibrant material.
'Are you going to roll over, then?'
Iker smiled.
Xabi laughed.

'This is a pointless question.'

Christmas

2008-07-12T23:05:20Z

Title: Christmas
Rating: PG
Pairing: Jamie Carragher / Peter Crouch
Disclaimer: It is UNtrue!

Saturday, 17th December 2005

'So what are you going to do now?'
'I'm bloody well going home!'
'I don't know how, my friend. You sure as hell aren't driving.'
'I've had two, if that!'
'You chucked up over my Indian glass coffee table!'
'Must have been something I ate... '
'Yeah. Possibly that sausage roll you had between pints eight and nine... '

Everybody loves a good party. None perhaps more so than we here in the 'Pool. We all like to see each other get pissed out of our skulls, and then attempt karaoke (Djib and Jerzy become convinced they are the Righteous Brothers after three pints minimum), try their hand at poker (Didi managed to lose himself £17,000 last Christmas) and chuck up over upholstery/cooker hoods/glass coffee tables (classic Xabi).
I, myself, am a refined individual, who knows his limits and chooses not to make a cock of himself in front of his friends and peers...

'Wahey! Go on Stevie! Rub his fucking face in it!'

... Christmas parties being the exception that proves the rule.
'Mr Carragher, if you'd like to join us on the floor for - ' Oh Jesus, say it with me, now ' - Unchained Melody!'
Our shiny new Summer signings look on with a mixture of horror and awe as a slightly inebriated (sloshed) version of me swaggers towards Djib's proffered microphone.
'Pepé, Momo, Bolo, Toni and Crouchie, this one goes out to you! Welcome to the Red Machine!'
I'm liking the look of these new lads. Some of them are already reshaping the squad for the better. The Saints were hell when Crouch was there, I tell you. I was hard put to keep him out of the box. It's them great long legs what does it.
'Go on Carra, belt it out!'
Five months on the Mersey and he sits on Stevie's sofa with a can of Carlsberg, mocking me. He's a proper Red already.

The downside to most of our Christmas parties, however, is that we tend to keep them going on for so long that by the time the finally do draw to a close, most of us are too hammered to stand up. Wives and girlfriends are called from all over the North West to come and drive us sodden excuses home to bed. Those of us whose houses are within walking - or staggering - distance stay for as long as possible because it's Christmas, and Stevie loves us.
'Oh pissing hell, all over the bloody carpet as well!'

I catch Crouchie's eye. Pissing hell? he mouths at me. I snigger and smell my own breath. Jesus Christ, I smell like a brewery. I'd better at least make something of an effort to clean myself up otherwise I'll end up lynched by my own wife. I hope Stevie doesn't mind me borrowing his toothbrush. Oh and all over the bathroom floor as well. Congratulations Xabi, you've finally left behind rank amateur and become the most fucking disgusting drunken twat in Liverpool. Well done.
'Carra?'
I look up and see Crouchie's reflection in the shaving mirror. I quickly try to wipe my mouth and smear toothpaste foam all over my face. Fucking genius.
'What's up mate? After a toothbrush? I've pinched Stevie's, mind using Alex's?'
'No, it's not that.'
I rinse.
'It's about Wigan two weeks ago.'
I spit. 'Crouchie mate, we've done all this, they weren't own goals. You had the credit for them didn't you?'
'Eventually.'
'Then what's your problem?'
'Well, what if that's all I can manage? Questionable, deflected, quarter annual...'
I turn to face him.
'Listen to me, you've got to - '
'Don't do that.'
'... don't do what?'
'Don't look at me like that.'
I stop with my mouth hanging open like a fucking goldfish. He's speaking far too quickly. Just how pissed is he?
'Peter. Breathe. You need to go home and sober up a bit, OK? We'll talk in the morning.'
He just looks at me.
'What?'
'I don't want to go home. Can I kip at yours tonight?'
'What for?'
'Because I really don't want to see or talk to her.'
This takes me aback quite a bit. Crouchie and Abbey were the very picture of player and WAG last time I saw them together. So much so that they seemed to be conjoined at the lips. Crouchie looks dismal. I, being me, should probably say something inappropriate and derogatory to make him laugh.
'Maybe just go and get your leg over, eh? Cheer yourself up.'
He regards me with surprisingly focused blue eyes. 'I don't enjoy it,' he says bluntly.
I blink. 'You what?'
'I'm not enjoying sex with her anymore. Sometimes I can't even do it.'
There's a fairly ringing silence, during which Peter's gaze hardens considerably, as though daring me to make another joke. I don't. Words fail me completely. I'm a married man and I would certainly think highly of a fumble with Abbey, and here is unattatched Crouchie effectively telling me that he feels next to nothing.
So now what? Do I say that it's perfectly fine not to be attracted to this gorgeous blonde stunner who poses semi-naked for a living? That's what a mate would do.
'That's... fine.'
He bites his lip and I become suddenly aware of how effeminate he himself looks in a certain light, with his high, delicate cheekbones and thick golden eyelashes. Somehow we've gotten far too close to each other. I can smell the lager on his breath.
'You're pissed.'
'So are you.'
'Come on. Let's get you home.'
I put my hand on his arm and he something seems to slot back into place in his head. He looks at me, horrified.
'Get off me!'
I whip my hand away as though an electric charge had passed through him.
I know one passed through me.

I would wake up the next morning hardly remembering the conversation, but remembering fully the look on Stevie's face when he found his best mate and Peter Crouch seconds from a kiss in his own bathroom.

Desejo / Corrupção: Liberdade

2008-07-05T21:49:32Z

Previous chapter, Seven, Six, Five, Four, Three, Two, One

Title: Desejo / Corrupção: Liberdade (Freedom)
Pairing: Lucas Leiva / Fernando Torres
Rating: R-ish
Disclaimer: As always, if only.

Beep.

Beep.

'Brain activity spiked...'
'Can he hear me?'
'Possibly. Try talking to him.'
'Luc! Lucas! It's me, baby! Squeeze my hand if you can hear me!'

Oh sweet Lord, my head... urgh, my stomach... I don't remember what happened...

'Lucas, please baby, it's me, it's Fernando!'

Open your eyes, you lazy twat, he's calling for you. The room swimming in and out of focus, too white, too bright...

'It's me! It's Fernando!'

What happened on the roof?
...

I remember his eyes, deeper and darker than I'd ever seen them before. I came towards him... I saw fear in them... and I heard things... what did I hear?

I heard his breathing, out of context, fast and shallow and hesitant in my ear.
I felt his lips, out of context, soft and full and tender on my neck.
I tasted his skin. Wet. Smooth. Salty. Spreading steadily over my tongue.

And then a voice, unwelcome Latino-American.

'Let him treat you like a fucking sex slave. Bend over for the pretty boy bastard - let him fuck you senseless. You disgust me. You disgust yourself.'
Malicious blue eyes, Hell-black hair.
'You be in charge. You take control. Push him. Three feet, if that. Go on. Push him.'
Then I took the step forwards... stopped.
'No.'
'What? Are you arguing with yourself you crazy prick?'
'Not with myself. With you.'
'Say that again?'

I reached out... I touched Fernando's face... The screaming inside my head reverberated so completely that it shook the very fibres of my being... finally, finally, I was standing up to Lu.

'NO! Push him! PUSH HIM!'

I pressed my palm against Fernando's chest, feeling the mellow throbbing of his warm heart. He stood firm. I couldn't move him. I didn't want to move him.
But Lu's anger filled me up like hot churning magma and I couldn't stand being so close as to scorch Fernando. I had to put an end to all the hate seething inside of me.

I had to save Fernando.

'He's waking up! He's waking up! Lucas! Blink if you can hear me!'
I blink.
He kisses me right there in the light. The electricity of his touch jolts my body back to reality, and the full consequence of whatever I must have done hits me like a freight train. I cry out in agony.
'Can we get some painkillers over here?'
Ah...
'Oh Luc, do you remember what happened?'
'No.' My voice is a pained rasp.
'You threw yourself off the roof, baby.'
'But...'
'Shhh.' He presses a finger to my lips. 'Don't try to speak anymore.'
My skin stings. My eyes water. My blood boils. My bones ache. My muscles sear. I can't stand it anymore. I want to go home. Tears stream down my bruised cheeks. Fernando strokes my fringe back from my forehead.

'It's OK Lucas. I'm here.'

'Shh, Lucas. I'll always be here.'

The fire escape broke my fall, unforgiving black steel, but then I only had another twenty feet to drop...

I try to sit up too suddenly and twist my shoulder terribly.
'Something's wrong.'
'What do you mean sweetheart?'
'Something's... wrong...'
Fernando's nose touches mine. His eyes are desperately concerned. 'What's wrong, Lucas?'

I don't know how to describe it to him. Something deep inside me feels worryingly different. It takes a long while in my present battered self to weigh up the difference.
I feel... light.
Almost...
...free.

I see clearly.

I see Fernando, glowing softly in the light. Arousal follows alarmingly swiftly. There's nothing holding back my feelings.

He's gone. All that's there... is... me.

Fernando leans close and inhales my heat, and the spicy scent of my pre-ejeculation. I feel so, so strong.
'Lie back down.'
I smile through my pain. Properly.
'Why should I?'
My Fernando raises an eyebrow.

'You're in casts.

Your spine isn't healed yet.

You can't support your own weight.

And I need to make love to you.'

O Fim

Desejo / Corrupção: Morte

2008-06-28T22:13:15Z

Previous chapter, Six, Five, Four, Three, Two, One

Title: Desejo / Corrupção: Morte (Death)
Pairing: Lucas Leiva / Fernando Torres
Rating: NC-13
Disclaimer: As always, if only.

There's something I omitted to tell Fernando.

Something I tried to omit from myself completely.

It's all a bit hazy now... I can't remember much about it... I remember sitting on the floor in the corner with a heavy nosebleed, and someone standing over me with a tissue and a smile.
My mother.

'Come on Lucas, let me tidy you up my sweetheart.'
'I don't want.'
'Sweetie, it's all dripping into your mouth. Let Mummy mop you up.'
'I don't want!'

I had nosebleeds regularly, and although the family practitioner assured my parents that it was nothing to worry about, I always thought that my mother fussed over me too much.
I suppose if truth be told, I liked seeing my own blood - the smell and the taste - and was reluctant to let my mother wipe it away. It makes me cringe to think that at such a young age I was enjoying something so morbid.

I have vague recollections of Lu. I never spoke to him before the age of about eight, nor him to me. After I had successfully fended off my mother he would sit on the floor opposite me, watching me with fascination as I licked the blood from my lips and fingers. He made gestures towards my face.
We had a pet hamster at the time. Marromé. She was old and moved with a sort of pained hover, and I, with my four year old eyes, loved her.

Lu killed her, that I had been certain of. The only thing I had sliced with that knife had been raw carrots, the blood staining my wrists and T-shirt had been my own. Lu had killed Marromé, driven a blade into her tiny heart mid-beat.

I couldn't have.
I wasn't capable.

Later in life, the few times I had managed to confine Lu to another room with cans of lager and Las Páginas Amarelo, I had re-indulged my lust for blood, this time not through self-injury, but through fantasy.
I would take out my precious hunting knife, not to carve channels in myself, but to run carefully through my fingers, slowly and purposefully, so I could imagine the steel pressing up against another's skin.
Inevitably, my mind would stray to Fernando.
I wondered what his blood would taste like; warm and bitter like mine? Or sweet and textured like a full-bodied red wine?
I wondered how he would sound when imploring for breath, perhaps his final one?
Fernando was strong and quick, but he had his weaknesses. Which bones would shatter easiest? What detriment would draw the more piercing scream?

Would Fernando be beautiful even in prayer for life? Even half an inch from death? Would any corpse that Fernando left behind become delicately pale, like porcelain, or decay with deep, alluring purples and browns?

Many a time I'd lain evoking my own climax to Fernando's fanciful pleading.

I am the recessive personality in our relationship. I would lay myself down for him, he would be the one who offered penetration, who held me down and bit me. I adore it, of course I do. Fernando merely has to blink suggestively in my direction to set me ablaze in all the right places.
But just once, I'd like to be in charge.
I'd like to be the one who says when, where and how.
I want to make him bleed.
I want to see his golden hair soaked and dripping with his own blood.
I want to hear him summon every last particle of air remaining in his bruised lungs to beg me to keep him alive.

My Fernando really would be - my - Fernando.

'I found your drawings.'
He pauses.
'I don't really know what they mean.'
He waits for me to comment. I don't. He gets straight to the point.
'Why did you draw me dying like that?'
He pauses.
'It was a really strange thing to do.'
I look down at the face of the building. The pavement below is concrete grey and sparkling with frost and snow. I imagine it stained a dangerously vivid red. I turn to face Fernando. Something clicks into place.
It's a test.
He's brought me up here to see what I might do, to see if I might attempt to shove him from the rooftop. He thinks he could stop me, of course. He is the dominant personality in our relationship. But I know I could take his life anytime I felt the impulse. I could stab him through the heart at any interval in time, just like my poor Marromé.

Or I could just push him to his death.
I know I'm strong enough.
I have the strength of the insane.

I step towards him.

Desejo / Corrupção: Vida

2008-06-24T15:37:11Z

Previous chapter, Five, Four, Three, Two, One

Title: Desejo / Corrupção: Vida (Life)
Pairing: Lucas Leiva / Fernando Torres
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: As always, if only.

'Where are you taking me?'
'You'll see.'

He grips the steering wheel with unnecessary ferocity. The A roads into Liverpool city center are virtually empty and slick with ice. As the new weak moonlight skims the patches of silver, pale blues, frosted pinks and mellow greens sparkle on the tarmac.
I lick my lips nervously. Fernando briefly checks his rear view mirror and presses harder on the accelerator. He eases us round a Transit van and we speed away, the few cars idling on the surrounding lanes morphing into blurred strips of colour.

'We'll be back in time for the skiing highlights.'
The corner of his mouth twitches.

When I first arrived in England, I was overwhelmed, foremost, by the smell. I exited the terminal of the John Lennon airport to be confronted with the pungent odour of greasy chips and cigarette smoke. The rare times I stepped outside my flat back home, I was greeted by the scent of the pine forest several blocks over. Gentle breezes from the South carried it to me. It was with a light heart, however, that I met my agent's people and traveled to my new home.
It was fantastic to be able to afford a house like the one I own now. It took me an hour to walk round the whole place. And best of all, I was living alone. I hadn't seen Lu for over half a year. He had disappeared, presumably because I didn't need him anymore.
I loved the attention I was given by my new teammates; Steven Gerrard invited me to his stag weekend, I was asked to three separate parties within two days, and I embarked on several club crawls headed by Jamie Carragher and Peter Crouch.
Finally, I had friends. I had a social life. These used to be a completely foreign concept to me. For the first time in my life, I was properly happy.
Then there was the best thing about my new club. For five to six hours a day, I was within touching distance of Fernando.
I thought my life could get no better.

'We're here.'
Fernando rolls to a stop in a dirty side-street. I subconsciously register how odd and out of place Fernando's shiny black Aston Martin looks as he leads me down through the heart of a council estate. Faces peer interestedly out of grimy windows as we make our way towards a main road that looks vaguely familiar.
'Where are we going?' I ask again.
Fernando puts a finger to his lips and squeezes my hand. We turn onto a deserted street lined with the city's garish purple wheelie bins. I glance up at the structure on the other side of the street and see a row of turnstiles and numbers.
'The stadium?'
We turn the corner and pass the Shankly Gates and the Hillsborough Memorial. Fernando looks up at them with fiery eyes. The sky is really quite dark now, and twinkling with snowflakes.
'Why have you brought me here?'
'Patience, Lucas.'
He leads me on with purposeful strides. We reach the other side of the ground and keep going straight. We reach a dreary-looking grey tower block and he urges me ahead of him through the narrow entrance. The lobby is quiet, but I can hear sounds from the other side of the building.
The lift smells strongly of piss and booze. Fernando presses for the top floor and the doors slide silently shut.
'We're going to stink when we get home,' I say, wrinkling my nose.
'We can take a shower.'
I look at him. 'Please mean together.'
He smiles. 'I do.'

I was out one night with Fabio Aurélio and Javier Mascherano when I saw him again. He was to the fore of a group of people, talking animatedly to an intimidating person with long black dreadlocks.
There was no mistaking him. It was the eyes that initially jumped out at me; characteristically cold and calculating. The colour must have drained from my face, because Fabio caught me by the arm and peered at me worriedly.
'What's wrong?'
'Nothing.'
Javier made a noise of disbelief. 'You look like you've seen a ghost.'

'You look like you've seen a ghost.'
'You look like you've seen a ghost.'

Fernando bashes at the door with his shoulder. It scrapes against the ground and sticks, but it opens at last.
'After you,' he says with a smile.
I step out onto the roof. Piles of snow glisten all over. We are so high up.
'Come to the edge.'
I stare at him. 'What?'
'Come to the edge.' He holds out his hand for me to take. 'Come on. It's OK.'
Still I hesitate.
'Look...'
He takes me by the shoulders and kisses me. The sudden rush of warmth in the freezing air pains me slightly and he pulls my head close to his chest. I feel him turn and then I feel nothing. I open my eyes at once and cry out. I am on the very edge of the building, snowflakes swirling around me like strange silent insects. But then what I see takes hold and steals my breath away.

Far below us, Anfield is lit up, with floodlights, glittering diamonds in the threatening nightfall. The heads of people in the stands are tiny pinpricks of brown, blond and black, and the pitch is no longer plain green, but vivid emerald, the frost and snow reflecting the moonlight.
Of course.
The reserves are playing Villa there tonight. A Christmas present from the coaching staff.
The ground is enveloped in blackness.

Anfield glows.

Desejo / Corrupção: Ajuda

2008-06-21T18:01:23Z

Previous chapter, Four, Three, Two, One

Title: Desejo / Corrupção: Ajuda (Help)
Pairing: Lucas Leiva / Fernando Torres
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: As always, if only.

The snow is falling heavily now. Fat, glittering flakes thud softly into the window. The sky is a deep, crisp indigo blue. I become suddenly aware of how warm it is in the house; I immediately feel the beads of sweat trickling uncomfortably down my back.
'I'm going outside,' I say to Fernando.
He raises his eyebrows at me. 'It's cold.'
'I like the cold.'
This is perfectly true. After all those years of blistering heat and oppressive Sun, the sparkling white blanket over the streets below is too appealing to pass up. I manage to smile blandly at Fernando's suspicious eyes before pulling on a sweater and leaving the house.
It's something else entirely to me.
I sit down among the piles of snow and look up at the darkening sky. Snowflakes kiss my face.

The hospital was Hell. Utter blazing Hellfire. They wanted to lock me in a cell and feed me my meals through a cat flap, I know it. They put me on a drip. I didn't understand, I wasn't ill, I needed help.

Some nights I was almost glad to be there, however. I knew that they must know what they were doing. Lu came with me, of course, but he hardly said anything. I could roll over and ignore him. So I did. He was hazy and insubstantial, like a breath of wind could break his collarbone, and he sat on the edge of my bed looking moody and sulky. He only spoke at night; to hiss my name through the gloom and tug softly at my covers.
Other nights I wanted out, and I wanted out that second. I was a strong boy, physically if not emotionally, and I could throw plenty of things with considerable force. So I did. I still get a poisonous twinge in my gut when I remember how many faces I smashed in with side-tables and drip stands when I was in a particularly towering rage.
I'd watched old films during which the notorious men in white coats appear to take away the mental patient. Never had I dreamed that one day the spitting, screaming mental patient would be me.
Four men held me to the floor while another two strapped me into a strait jacket. They forced half a bottle of pills down my throat, and through the veil of tears clouding my stinging eyes, I saw someone else come at me with a syringe. I cried out for a final time as one of my half-healed scars was pierced by the needle, I felt the tranquiliser sear through my bloodstream. As they carried me away down a brightly lit corridor, I saw Lu, years younger with a plastic spade in his hand, my best friend for fifteen years. This was the last time I would see him before I moved to England.

He was crying.

'You'll catch your death.'
Fernando sat down beside me, his teeth chattering. 'It's too cold to be outside today.'
'Go back inside, then.'
'I can't. You're out here.'
'We're not joined at the hip.'
He nudges me hard with his shoulder. 'What's the matter? Why have you gone all arsey?'
I splutter with laughter. It's simply not possible to say something like that with such a thick Spanish accent. He looks offended. 'What?'
''Arsey'.'
He flushes bright pink. 'Well. That's what you're being. You stormed off, into the garden of all places. It's snowing and it's freezing. You'll get frostbite.'
I look at him.
'Why did you use that word?'
'What word?'
I sigh. 'Why did you say arsey? Where have you heard it?'
The pink tinge in his cheeks deepens. 'Around.'
'Where?' I press him.
'Who are you, my mother?' He shifts his weight. 'Melwood, probably.'
I smile reluctantly. 'You pick up bad habits from Stevie and Carra. You don't see them refer to each other as 'chico bebé preciso' , do you?'
'Where would they get that from?' His voice lowers provocatively. 'I only refer to you as 'chico bebé preciso'.'
And it takes pleasurably little to recall exactly when he refers to me as 'chico bebé preciso'. I find his hand in the snow and thread my fingers through his.
It is wonderful to have an ordinary conversation with him after all the shit from my past he's hand to absorb today. He holds me close. Against my fierce will to enjoy the cold, I've begun to shiver.

'There's something I wanted to ask you about.'
'Mmm?'
'Well... I don't know how to raise this, really... um... do you ever... think about... death... at all?'
My insides disappear.
'Death?'
'Yes.'
He looks at me with serious eyes. My insides return, full of lead. What does he know?
He's quiet for a long time, waiting for me to reply. When words fail me, he breathes out heavily through his nose.
The snow tumbles onto his head and clings to his honey gold hair.

'Come with me,' he says.

Desejo / Corrupção, Tolo do Amor

2008-06-15T17:27:11Z

Previous Chapter, Three, Two, One

Title: Desejo / Corrupção: Tolo do Amor (Lovefool)
Pairing: Lucas Leiva / Fernando Torres
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: As always, if only.

Fernando:

My mouth is dry.
It's awful to have to drink all this in. My mind whirs constantly, attempting in vain to process this dark, twisted stranger I hold so tenderly in my arms.
I remember something I'd asked myself months ago: 'How can I love someone I know so little about?'
Lucas scares me. What else is going on in that warped cesspool of a mind? Perhaps this is too much for me. Far too much.
Then I look at him properly. He's so small curled up on my lap, innocent blond hair cascading over my chest, eyes weary and helpless. What could he possibly do to me? His drawing was just a drawing; spur of the moment, hallucination-fuelled madness. But as he progresses with his story I feel a strange uneasiness creep through me. Almost as though there is someone watching us. He's got me spooked. He winds his hands through my hair, pulling himself closer to me. Shivering.

I want to throw him from me.

What is the matter with me? This is my amor preciosa, my baby, the best sex I ever had. He's miserable, confused and so very, very lost. I love him to pieces. Yet that crazed scribble of me lying, bleeding to death on the ground throbs insistently. What possessed him to draw it?
I could just ask him. I look back at him. No. He looks so sick of himself, tired, defeated and broken.
There are all sorts of things vying for frontal position in my mind. It's painful. I have to take some sort of breather from all this. Lucas looks surprised and then hurt as I unhook his hands from my hair and walk away. I don't want to look at him anymore, just yet. I rub at my temple where dreadful thoughts are pounding away. I go to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. My bedroom door, mockingly ajar.
Lucas loves my bed. He says it smells of me. He would hide under the covers and roll around, laughing like a small child, and I would prod at various places and make him squeal. I suppose it was good for him.
I hear him sobbing and feel a perverted pang of longing in my loins. In spite of myself I start to think of biting into him and listening for that soft, sensual voice he lets out.
He's exhausted. He couldn't possibly fight me off if I were to pin him to the wall and take him here and now.

He calls for me.
His voice is weak and wracked with tears.

I don't really want to go back in there. What else will he tell me? What else has he done? I stand uncertainly on the landing for minutes more. He calls again. I reach some sort of resolve. I breathe out.
Lucas is mine to look after. I will hear him out. I will let him cling to me and cry on my shoulder and I will try my hardest to be... understanding. Whatever else I learn in there, it won't make the slightest difference.
I will still love him. I will still want to be with him. I will still take him back to my bedroom and force him to love himself.

Does that make me a fool...?

Lucas:

My mouth is dry.
I haven't spoken this much in a long time. Fernando usually does the talking; I love to listen to his voice. But somehow I feel an old pain inside me ease as I let it all out. This time, it's good for me to talk.
Maybe it'll all be over soon. Maybe letting the light shine in on something I've been keeping locked away for years is the way forward to the rest of my life. I've left Brazil behind, after all. There is no reason why I can't leave everything else behind in the same way.
Fernando is really quiet. I feel like he should be asking my questions, offering his own opinions. His breathing is laboured and uneven.
He doesn't understand me at all. It's clear from his body language that he wants nothing more than to be out of this room, out of this house, away from me. But he's still here, listening to me.
It's because he loves me, and he'll go on loving me no matter what I tell him, because it's all in the past. He has made the new me.
We'll kiss and cry and make love a thousand times after all this is finished, and I'm hoping with every fibre of my being that Fernando will finally accept me as I am.

Does that make me selfish...?

Desejo / Corrupção: Dor

2008-06-13T19:34:41Z

Previous Chapter, Two, One

Title: Desejo / Corrupção: Dor (Pain)
Pairing: Lucas Leiva / Fernando Torres
Rating: NC-13
Disclaimer: As always, if only.

Fernando gently extracts himself from me and leaves the room. I run my hands through my hair. Have I told him too much? Does he now think me deluded, insane, possibly dangerous? No. He's remembered something. Something bad. I saw the shutters close behind his dark eyes. Keeping me out. Or maybe keeping the person he wants me to be in.
I hear the floorboards creak on the landing as he paces. His bedroom is mere yards away. Dark wall and pile carpet, and worlds of mattress and pillow that smell of bittersweet sex. I bite my lip and recall how hungrily he'd taken me. Would he recoil at the thought of making love with me again? Had I torn what we'd had in two?
Reluctant tears begin to slide down my cheeks as I feel his hand on my arm. He looks unsettled, disconcerted, but he's come back to listen to the rest of my story.
He touches my lips.

My coach hired a psychiatrist. A young Argentinian woman whom I never deigned to tell so much as my favourite colour. She sat, persevering, for hours at a time, asking me this, asking me that, and I remained resolutely silent.
I tried to pretend to myself that it was because this stranger had no right to know anything about me. But of course, I was scared. Terrified. Lu insisted on following me to her office and breathed heavily in my ear. I knew that if I told her anything, he would make me regret it in ways that God never should have made possible. I kept my head bowed, my eyes trained resignedly on the legs of her desk.

Lu had changed. I didn't want to be his friend anymore. But I couldn't make him go away. He stayed stubbornly by my side throughout the day, eating with me, reading with me, watching me train and play.
He tried to take my only pleasure from me.
Fantasy was my escape, always had been, and now I had Fernando - a fresh, young, beautiful 21-year-old Fernando - to think of when I reached for the latch on my bedroom door.
And Lu would be there, too.
I would try to touch myself and he would touch me instead.
He would straddle me, take hold of me, and pull my bruised, protesting mouth onto his.
'Let's do it, Lucas, let's do it.'

I contemplated ending my own life to get away from him.

I pause at this point because Fernando is rubbing assiduously against me. It's always a sign. I think of how this would have made the younger me feel. Fernando Torres; ready for me, imploring me.
'Life is a gift,' he says softly.
His tongue in my ear.
'To take it away from yourself is as wrong as anything in the world can possibly be.'
'I didn't, though.'
'You were doing. Up until very recently.'
He traces my scars with a trembling forefinger. 'Draining the life right out of your veins.'
Hot guilt boils my insides. I still am.
But it would be more than my life's worth to tell him.

Drugs. That was the next step. They gave me drugs.
And I took them. Religiously.
Needless to say, Lu did not like this as at all. He became incredibly violent towards everything in the flat, especially me. He would run screaming at me, tearing at my hair in his rage, throwing punches at me, throwing everything else at me. He would dispose of my drugs with increasing inventiveness and through any means necessary.
And then it would start.
My behaviour, my preferences, my family, my sexuality, my football, and, the thing he loathed most about me, Fernando. He left nothing unsaid. Everything I hated about myself came flooding from his cruel, twisted mouth.
It hurt so much, I had to do something. I cut myself again and again and again. The pain upon pain was explicit agony, roaring in my ears that extinguished Lu almost completely. I bled steadily onto the carpet, slicing away at myself, vivid red pouring from my increasingly pale skin.
When I'd finished he'd barely be there, a shadow of a ghost in the corner, arms folded and mean blue eyes boring into me. Nothing more to say.
Gasping for breath and crying with relief I'd collapse on the floor and cry myself to sleep, dreaming fitfully of Fernando bending over me and kissing my tender, sore body.

Healing me.

'Lucas.'
I sob onto his shoulder.
'Lucas. Sh, it's OK now, he's gone. I'm here.'
I so, so want to believe him. But a horribly familiar tingle runs the length of my spine, and I feel icy fingers that don't belong to Fernando on my exposed thigh. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut and wrap my arms around Fernando's waist. Ragged breath in my hair.
And words that could belong to anyone...

'Sh, Lucas. I'll always be here.'

Desejo / Corrupção: Fantasmas

2008-06-09T18:48:52Z

Previous chapter, One.

Title: Desejo / Corrupção: Fantasmas (Ghosts)
Pairing: Lucas Leiva / Fernando Torres
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: As always, if only.

Fernando:

My poor, sweet Lucas, with his head full of torment.
I hold him closer with every blow to his heart, with every fresh note of pain in his voice and tear in his sad grey eyes.
I wonder if, to him, they are here now, his ghosts.
I wonder if this is the reason he is rocking obsessively back and forth, casting nervous, darting glances over his shoulder, dropping his voice lower and lower until I have to lean in so close that I long to stop listening and kiss him over and over until he forgets.

His prolonged use of the past tense begins to unsettle me. He speaks as though nothing of the sort happens to him anymore.
The times I'd woken in the dead of night and I would hear him downstairs, muttering furiously in an undertone, and I'd been too tired to investigate and too embarrassed to bring it up the next day. He would go for days without sleep, in the garden with his back against a tree, his lips dry and his eyes wide and contemplative. I'd assumed it was just his way.
And then there had been the time that I had gone through the drawers at his home.

I was in a mischievous sort of mood and I'd wanted to find some underwear to take back with me. I hadn't been able to resist the mysterious white plastic bag underneath the socks and T-shirts. I tipped the contents onto his bed.
There had been four shoe box lids. I was intrigued and amused; had I just revealed Lucas as a hoarder? I had been smirking to myself as I inspected the brand and description in Portuguese. I turned over the first one to find that there was a small, childish drawing on the underside in black marker pen.
It was quite clearly meant to be Luc. He was standing alone, not smiling, with a little black football under one arm.
I didn't think anything of it.
The second had another drawing. There was Luc, again, but this time he was smiling broadly and waving, surrounded by cluster of people all of whom were named in what I recognised in slight surprise as Luc's handwriting. There was a small jolt in my stomach as I found myself labelled as 'Nando Encantador'.
I still didn't think anything of it.
The third was a deal more recent. The brand was Nike and the description was in English. The drawing on this one was me, with emphasied floppy hair that makes me cringe now, with my arm around Luc's shoulders. He had drawn a heart above our heads.
I thought this was sweet but slightly sad, and still thought little of it.

The meaning of the fourth drawing slid into place, as I held Lucas.
It had disturbed me when I found it.
Lucas had drawn somebody lying on the ground, and had coloured a pool around him in red marker pen. The someone was crying tears of blood and holding his hands to his bleeding head. There had been somebody else standing over him, coloured in black and holding a football in one hand and something else in the other. Lucas had drawn himself on his knees, apparently pleading with this entity.
I had not taken into account what this unknown person was holding in his left hand.
I remember the colours - red and yellow - and a number. Nine.
A number nine.
One of Lucas' ghosts had been holding a Spanish national shirt.

The somebody on the ground hadn't just been any somebody.

The somebody on the ground had been me.

Desejo / Corrupção: Amigo

2008-06-06T23:55:24Z

Previous chapter

Title: Desejo / Corrupção: Amigo (Friend)
Pairing: Lucas Leiva / Fernando Torres
Rating: NC-13
Disclaimer: As always, if only.

'You're very good at that.'
'At what?'
'At pretending that you're not in pain.'
'I'm not.'
'You can't lie to me. You're too much of a child to lie properly.'
'I am not a child.'
'You are.'
'I am not a child!'
'You are as good as.'
'I am not!'
My bottle missed him by three feet. He looked at me calmly with those patronizing, contemptuous eyes as it shattered. Spirit ran down the wall. My mail lay on my unmade bed. He gestured towards it.
'Take the teamsheet. Show your friends. Drink yourself into a stupor. Again.'
I turned away from him, wanting him to leave me alone.
'I'm not going anywhere, Lucas.'
I stared at my name on the piece of paper until the letters merged and my eyes watered. His hand on my shoulder.
'I'm not going anywhere. And neither are you. You are hurting too much. You were crying again last night.'
I gasped. There was no way he could have known...

Show your friends. That had cut deep. I had no friends, apart from Lu. I couldn't understand why everybody backed away from me as I walked through town; why mothers placed protective hands on the heads of small children, why the girls whispered and pointed, why the local team spat at my feet.

It was October. I was becoming more and more of a recluse. I left my new flat only to train and play. I spent almost every penny of my wage on drink.
Half a year earlier I bought my first hunting knife.
It was beautiful.
I kept it pristine.
It had to sparkle like moonshine before I felt at ease enough to wrap it in its black velvet and return it to my pillow. At the tender age of eighteen I was already embossed with scars. But my young skin cried as it split open. Lu was right. They were hurting, and hurting badly.

'I hear you when you think you're alone, too.'
His voice was lower, but no gentler. 'Talking. To yourself.'
Here was where Lu was mistaken. I never spoke to myself. Something spoke to me. Somethings. I wanted to be left alone. I told them so. I licked my lips nervously.
'You're losing it, Lucas. Or maybe you were simply drunk?'
He cast a withering eye over the empty bottles among the general debris carpeting my floor.

'You had a drink problem?'
Fernando leans forward, concern in his voice. I close my eyes, I struggle to remember.
'I don't think so,' I say finally. 'I drank so I didn't have to hear...'
He shifts uneasily. 'You... heard voices?'
I put my hand to my head to find that his is already there, softly stroking my hair. He pulls me closer and presses his lips to the bridge of my nose.
'And did you... ?'
I want to sit here, like this, a week before Christmas, and not think about any of it. But I owe my budding relationship with Fernando, and as he begins to rock me tenderly, I feel compelled to continue.

My debut for Grêmio's senior team on the 22nd was a welcome distraction from myself. My mother and my young aunt came to visit me afterwards. Lu, who was at my flat so often these days, was in the background, idly flipping through my magazines and looking bored. They chatted away to me, sipping glasses of red wine, though I was barely listening.
By this time, I was an avid follower of the English Premiership. Chelsea were rumoured to be chasing a highly rated Spanish striker. This was my very first brush with Fernando. I instantly adored him. He was exotic and exciting, and gorgeous.

Fernando squeezes me and nibbles my earlobe in gratitude.

I began to blush fiercely throughout their gentle tirade. Lu sniggered at me from behind them. My aunt looked at me closely.
'You've gone pink, Lucas! Who are you thinking of, eh?'
She and my mother smiled interestedly. Lu snorted.
'You poison your mind with that useless pretty boy.'
'Why don't you shut up and leave me alone?'
He tossed aside my magazines and kicked at the empties I'd hidden beneath the sofa. 'Too much fantasizing and hard vodka will ruin you.'
I stood up. 'Just stop it! Stop it!'
My mother and aunt were staring at me worriedly. 'Lucas?'
Lu laughed in my face. 'That's right! Shout! Make a scene! Then go to your bedroom and wank over pretty Torres! Again!'
I tore at my own hair.
'Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!'
'Luc -' My mother put her hands on either side of my face. 'What is it? What's wrong?'
I had Lu's cruel laughter ringing in my ears. 'Lu... Lu has to leave! Why are you doing this? You're my friend!'
'Who are you talking to, Lucas?'
I stared at her. I pointed. Lu folded his arms, his eyes glittering malevolently. My mother turned.
Looked at Lu.
Looked...

'Lucas... there's nobody there.'

Desejo / Corrupção: O Começo

2008-06-03T12:18:17Z

Title: Desejo / Corrupção: O Começo (The Beginning)
Pairing: Lucas Leiva / Fernando Torres
Rating: NC-13
Disclaimer: As always, if only.
A/N: This is part of the backstory to my Away Games series. I dedicate the backstory to aguardente and bolanboogie. Sorry if it's a bit naff!

Nome: Lucas
Anos: 18
Aniversário: 9th Jan 87
Posição: Dourados

I was a shy kid.
It was my eighteenth birthday and I didn't even have a party. I had my window open, for the breeze was mild and the local team were practising in the street below. They were my soundtrack every Saturday afternoon.
I was with Grêmio's youth team. Outside of football, I suppose I was borderline antisocial; I had little in common with my team-mates and, more disturbingly to me, I was very awkward around girls.
As far as friends went, there was one person I believed I was fairly close to. Otherwise, I only had friends when I played.

Fernando has an album open in his lap. There are pictures of a sixteen year old me. My hair is short and shiny, my eyes are bright and smiling.
It doesn't look like me.
He flips forward several pages. There are pictures of an eighteen year old me. I see his grim recognition. My hair is long and lank, my eyes are lost and haunted.
I am grinning wanly at someone outside the photograph.
'Who?'
'His name was Luíz.'
Smiles. 'Your first boyfriend?'
Hesitation. 'Sort of.'

Luíz.
I can still see him. He was everything I wanted to be. Confident. Outspoken.
I used to love it when foreign teams came to play against Grêmio. There was an enormous ground overlooked by grassy banks where they used to train. Lu used to sit on the banks and pick out the best looking players. He would make suggestions which I would attempt to carry out in the local bars after curfew.
I was young and they were drunk.
My first sexual encounter was a Brahma-fuelled grope in some filthy bathroom with a Turkish fullback whose name I can't recall. I was happy to let these strangers slobber all over me in the dark. I liked pretending I was loved.
Of course, it was only a matter of time before someone found out. As is life. But I was in my own world, and I had no thoughts for the consequences of any action. My curfew was retracted and I was to be kept within sight of a team member in any bar.
I was devastated. My name effectively became mud with most small teams in places like Germany, Turkey and Greece. But Lu found it positively comical. He convinced me that 'A vida é significada ser vivida'*, and if I wasn't willing to go behind my manager's back (I had no intention of risking my career), I could... do things... with him instead.
Hence my very first time was not with a beautiful footballer, as I had dreamed so ardently of, but with my best friend.

Fernando closes the album and puts it to one side. He leans forward and looks me full in the face.
'He is not in any of these photographs,' he says softly. 'Why is that?'
I look at the floor, wondering whether or not to continue. I am silent for a long time.
'Lucas?'
He places three fingers under my chin and tilts my head back towards him. 'Did he do something to you?'
Slowly, self-loathing churning inside me, I shake my head.

The evening of my birthday. I couldn't kiss him properly; something held me back, perhaps the small part of me that hated me for what I was doing.
He touched me all over.
'Come on,' he whispered. 'Let's go outside. Let me wank you off in an alley somewhere.'
I let him lead me down the stairs, past the bedroom of my sleeping parents and out into the cool, crisp night. He pressed me to a brick wall outside a supermarket and kissed me roughly, plunging his hand down the front of my jeans.
I couldn't enjoy it. This was Lu, my older brother figure. I let him abuse him for a full ten minutes before the inn opposite rang last orders and began to let out. He muttered an oath and was gone, just like that, melting into the growing darkness like a shadow. I slid down the wall and put my head in my hands. I cried quietly. No-one came over to me. There was no protective arm around me shoulders, no reassuring words of comfort.
I started to hate myself from then onwards, believing myself to be weak and gullible. This was the first, but not the last time that would make me reach for something sharp.

The worst was yet to come.

*Life is meant for living.

Away games: Epilogue

2008-05-29T16:11:40Z

Final chapter, Twelve, Eleven, Ten, Nine, Eight, Seven, Six, Five, Four, Three, Two, One, Prologue

Title: Away games: Epilogue
Pairing: Lucas Leiva / Fernando Torres
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: As always, if only.

December 14th, 2008

It's so quiet, it's almost eerie.
I used to hate silence. I used to feel so alone, when there was silence. Things used to happen to me. I never told anyone, of course. Who could I tell? No. I'd kept it to myself.
Things still happen to me, when I'm alone in the house. Normally I can just put on some music and it will stop.
Sometimes it doesn't work like that.
Nowadays, I don't let things like this bother me. It's a part of me that has always been there, a part of me that began to fade away when I became involved with Fernando. When I was sixteen or seventeen, I started to wonder if I was mentally ill. Now I hardly notice it.
I suppose it was ridiculous of me to think that Fernando wouldn't figure it out at some point. It's deeply worrying to him. He went out and bought books about psychosis and read them by lamplight after he thought I was asleep. I used to hear him give little groans now and then as he read a particularly difficult chapter.

I look out at the blanket of crisp white snow. I love snow. It never snowed back home in Brazil, and snow always seemed kind of magical to me.
Fernando now wants to know everything about me. He keeps springing questions at me. I want to read what the books say but he hides them well. They are all in Spanish anyway.
He wants to know what happened to me before I moved to England. It is far too painful for me to discuss, even with him. I just want to look at the snow.

'Lucas? Do you want to come and watch the skiing?'
'Not right now.'
'I thought you liked the skiing?'
'I'll watch the highlights.'
'Lucas?'
'Yes?'
'What are you doing?'
'Just... thinking.'

I wonder sometimes whether I should just tell him. We've been together for a while now, and I have never been happier. But it will always be there in the back of my mind, burning a hole in my thoughts of him.
I look down at my arms. The scars there are white now, receeding back into my skin. They will always be there too.
Now I am so intimate with Fernando it has become exceedingly difficult to harm myself. He sees everywhere, new scars instantly recognisable because of their colour. I have to be very... creative. The inside of my thighs satisified me for a month or two. Then the back of my neck, shielded from view by my hair. Then the inside of my mouth as well.
I tried to stop, I tried so, so hard for him, I really did. But I am, and always have been, weak. Weak and stupid. If I were to tell him he would be angry with me. It's another part of me that must stay hidden.
I heard him talking on the phone yesterday. I know it was to a psychiatrist. He wants me to open my heart to a stranger. It's not going to happen.
I want to tell him. So I will. I'll tell him tonight, so I can enjoy Christmas without my past hanging over me like those shadows on the wall. He won't judge me for it. He loves me.
Even if I am psychotic.
Even if I can't love myself.
I'll find a way to stop doing this to myself. Somehow.

O Fim

Away games: Our Consumation

2008-05-26T23:32:49Z

Previous chapter, Eleven, Ten, Nine, Eight, Seven, Six, Five, Four, Three, Two, One, Prologue

Title: Away games: Our Consumation
Pairing: Lucas Leiva / Fernando Torres
Rating: R
Disclaimer: As always, if only.

We don't go back with the team that night.
He takes a sponsor representitive into a corner and has a few words with some boardroom suits - half an hour later we are in the most luxurious hotel room I have ever seen, with a fresh bottle on ice and the lights already glowing softly amber. The bed, I register with rose tinted eyes, takes up half of the floor space, all cream silk and brown velvet.

He runs the flat of his hand across the sheets. My heart beats like nothing on Earth. He turns to me, a fire blazing deep in the fathoms of his spellbinding eyes. He comes closer. He doesn't even touch me but I harden under his sheer electrifying proximity. He licks his lips, slowly, teasingly. The concupiscence is almost intolerable.

'Close your eyes.'
'Why?'
'I want you to concentrate.'

I give him one last look, filled with craving, before I oblige. I block out the world.
When his lips finally touch mine, they feel more beautiful than ever before. We kiss long and deep, his hands wandering. Before long, we just sink naturally backwards onto the bed. It's gentle, it's tender, and I love it, but a certain part of my anatomy is baying, screaming, for more.
He leaves my mouth.
I feel his hot, fervid tongue on my neck. I sigh. I am so lost in him that fireworks explode within me when he begins to undress me. His breaths come fast and uneven. He touches my stomach. I feel sweltering stickiness flow from me.
He leaves my neck.
He strokes my penis with one finger. He is deliberately baiting me now. He wants to hear me groan. He'll have to do better than that. Now with his tongue. That'll do. My own voice is strangely muted, as though it is coming to me from behind glass. Or beneath the covers. It's in his mouth. It comes from all angles. His tongue. His teeth...
I hear him laughing softly.

'Turn over.'
'But - '
'No 'but's.'
'But what if - ?'
'No 'what if's. Just turn over. It's what you want. And God knows it's what I want.'

So I do. I feel his palms on my buttocks. He bites me. Hard. He licks me, fondles me, then whispers to me: 'You are mine.'
He's inside me. I cry out, it's tight, but this time there is no blood. There is just him. His moans of ecstasty are like music. His delectation, filling him completely, leaks into me, and white-hot bliss erupts within me. My insides are once again on fire, but this time I adore it. I feel so alive.

'You're so hot inside, Lucas.'

I am so breathless that I can't even reply. Beads of sweat run down my back and forehead. His impassioned rhythm is hypnotic to me. He puts has hands on my shoulders and presses in deeper. I feel something snap. New waves of rapture rush through me, engulfing my brain.
I don't speak.
I don't think.
I just feel.

An age later, he lifts my hair and kisses the sensitive skin between my neck and shoulder. Quiet bliss is smouldering away between us. I feel his chest heaving. His hands on my waist. He is still inside me, but is no longer thrusting into me. He moves gently with his own breathing, and each tiny movement sends shooting stars over me. We are exhausted, but are reluctant to stop. He is gasping for air but insistantly remains there.
I carefully bring myself round to him. If I was sweating, he is dripping. His skin shines. I push my own sopping hair behind my ear. I stroke his body and he closes his eyes, groaning. I put two fingers between his thighs and pleasure him softly. It's an unbelievable experience for me. I hold him entirely. I could do anything to him. But this time, he's awake.
'Do that again,' he implores hoarsely.
I brush his entrance.
'That feels so fucking good...'
I could keep going into the sunrise just to keep that expression of bliss on his gorgeous face, but I want to sleep, and I want to sleep in his arms.
'Nando.'
He doesn't answer. His heavy, amorous gasps have been replaced by slow, deep breathing. He's fallen asleep. Smiling at him, I clap off the lights and wrap my arms around him. I fit snugly under his chin. He squeezes me in his dreams. I kiss his chest one last time before I close my eyes and drift peacefully into my own.

Away Games: Under Pressure

2008-05-25T08:22:08Z

Previous chapter, Ten, Nine, Eight, Seven, Six, Five, Four, Three, Two, One, Prologue

Title: Away Games: Under Pressure
Pairing: Lucas Leiva / Fernando Torres
Rating: NC-13
Disclaimer: As always, if only.

So.
It all comes down to waiting in the tunnel.
I can't look at anyone, of course. I never can. It's probably just as well. All I'd see were eyes full of forced, manufactured pity from my team-mates and indecent curiosity from the others. Eyes I don't want to see anyway.
I wonder how they're looking at Fernando. I've rarely wanted to physically hurt anybody before, but I feel like I could tear the throat from anyone who dares to look at my Nando like he's filth.

If I look up now I may be able to see him. What will his expression be? Will he be visibly anxious? Pale, like me, perhaps unable to stand still, his mind riddled with possible scenarios beyond the mouth of the tunnel, bottles, chants, abuse spilling from every seat in every stand. Or will he keep it hidden behind a mask of characteristic confidence, quietly smothering it deep inside him, caring more for the outcome of the game?
Masch shifts ahead of me. Dan turns to speak to him. I look up.
I wish I hadn't.
My baby, my Nando, so white, freckles standing out like puncture wounds, standing rigidly and awkwardly, his wide eyes the very epitome of fear. Alvaro puts a hand on his shoulder and says things I can't hear. He gets no answer, or indeed any acknowledgment of any kind. A horribly familiar ache stirs in my chest.

'Amedrontado? Não seja. Sendo amedrontado arruiná-lo-á. Você não será nenhum divertimento a derrotar.'
I have not been addressed in my own language for a long time. Carvalho will probably never know how much those words, however they were meant, warm me right now.

Minutes pass like hours, dragging themselves reluctantly by.
The persistent stinging on the inside of my right thigh reminds me of what I'd done to myself on the coach. Everytime I'd castigated myself before, once was never enough. I'd always kept going to the point where I'd start to feel dizzy and faint.
This last time was different. One long, deep, oozing gash. That was all. I was too worried for Fernando to care about myself.
And now the worry was beginning to leave me too, to be replaced by something else. I turn to Carvalho, who is now having a story regaled to him by Claude Makélélé.
'Obrigado,' I say quietly.

I feel stronger than I have felt in a long time. I can hear singing from the stands. I make out the words 'Gerrard' and 'arse'. The Chelsea fans are in fine voice tonight.
The fourth official waves us out.
Fernando looks terrified. I yearn to take him in my arms, to hold him close, to hide him away from the world. I want to help him as he'd promised to help me. But it would be unwise to do so in front of a predominantly blue clad, seventy thousand strong crowd.
They aren't singing anymore.
They are laughing.
A solid lead weight drops into my stomach. They are shouting things that I wish I could drown out, but the travelling fans seem spitefully silent in comparison.
His head down, his shoulders round, his confidence shot to Hell, he stands bathed in floodlight while the words strike him like darts. Slowly, pleadingly, he looks up at the Shed End, where the ribbon of scarlet are finally beginning to raise their scarves and make themselves heard. They call his name. As more join in, I make out the skeleton of his song forming.

His armband proved he was a red,
Torres, Torres,
'You'll never walk alone' it said,
Torres, Torres,
We got the lad from sunny Spain,
He gets the ball, he scores again,
Fernando Torres,
Liverpool's number nine!

He stands a little straighter. They start another verse.

D'you think we care what papers say,
Torres, Torres,
D'you think we give a fuck you're gay,
Torres, Torres,
They won't be laughing when you're through,
Not when you've scored a goal or two,
Fernando Torres,
Liverpool's number nine!

Everything seems to flood back to him. The gorgeous, glowing smile is back in place. Relief spreads through me as he yells back to them, brandishing the ball at them before turning and placing it firmly on the centre spot.
He plays like a man possessed.
If the grass could be scorched by his pace and passion then it would be black.
This is the Fernando I fell in love with.

'We really shook 'em up when we won the FA Cup! Oi, Stevie, your best yet, I reckon! Goal of the season? Eh? I think so!'
'Well what about you with the back-flipping? Where did you think you were? Brazil?'
'Skittles! Foul-a-minute! Couldn't you have broken his leg as well?'
'Oh, backs against the wall gentlemen, our Lord Torres is here!'
They all cheer as Nando carries the Cup into the changing room. Covered in towels, boxer shorts and champagne, he heaves it into Steven's arms and bends to check his reflection in the silver. There's more cheering as the boys pile on top of him.
'Another screamer like that and we'll be getting fifty million bids for you, my friend!'
I sit in the corner with my glass and the biggest smile on my face. Crouchie sits beside me.
'He, er, doesn't use you, does he?'
I turn to him and look him straight in the eye. 'Only when I ask him to.'
He laughs and touches my glass with his.

An hour later.
A hand on my shoulder. A voice in my ear.
'I love you. Tonight, we go all the way.'

Away Games: I Hate The World

2008-05-23T13:53:57Z

Previous chapter, Nine, Eight, Seven, Six, Five, Four, Three, Two, One, Prologue

Title: Away Games: I Hate The World
Pairing: Lucas Leiva / Fernando Torres
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: As always, if only.

Fernando:

It's cold up here.
They must be looking for me by now, but they can look, I don't care, I'll come down when I'm ready.
God, I'm so angry.
I still have the paper clenched in my fist. I unfold it a fourth time, but it hurts too much to re-read it. Instead I tear it; over and over, the pieces fluttering like confetti. I tear it until only the picture is left. I take it in both hands, meaning to rip it apart.
But I don't. I hold it up and let the weak, frosty sunlight pour through it.

There's no way I can ever be with him now. Not now the media is on red alert, not now they think I'm this... this...
I have to calm down. The damage is done. I look at him.
He is so pale, like a ghost, with his white skin and colourless hair.
He looks ill.
I remember how he felt against me when I pulled him close. Cold. He was cold, all over. And shivering slightly.
He'd felt ill.
I feel sorry for Lucas, of course I do. I like him, I care for him.
But I don't think I love him.
He's not worth my career. I won't sacrifice everything I have for him.

I'll have to do some sort of interview, tell them it was for a bet or something. It's a lie, and it will hurt Lucas, but there is nothing else I can do.
I bury my head in my hands and massage my aching forehead. I think of how Lucas might feel, reading the words that would tear me from him. I think of him lost in the wilderness of his own self-injury, and wonder if this would keep him there forever.
I look back at the photograph and run my forefinger down his pale paper cheek. When he saw this, did he cry? Did he lock it away inside him? Has he kept the picture?
I want to talk to him about it, but there isn't time. I have to make my way to Park Square alone; the coach will have left.
I don't train with him.
I won't get a chance to see him, his clear innocent eyes and the smile that lights his face each time they fall on me, I won't see them until tonight at Stamford Bridge.

It dawns on me just how much I miss him, even now, when he's probably just minutes away from me.
This dull ache in my stomach, this frenzied ringing in my ears, this urgent white-hot pounding of my heart... is this love?
Do I love him?

Love is such a strong word. I feel I've hardly known him long enough to love him. I know next to nothing about him. I'm wrong. I know the things that matter.
I know how his hair falls across his face when he sleeps. I know how he licks his lips when he is aroused. I know how he spilled his secrets to me and begged me to take him. I know the soft sounds he makes when I touch him.
And I know he needs help.
I know how the dark, sickly colour of the circles around his eyes. I know the defensive, protective posture he has grown into. I know how the webs of scars destroy his self-esteem, and how his shocking thirst for pain controls his life.

I stand and look into the sun. The wind throws back my hair and bites at my neck. I give the picture a last fond look and put it in my pocket. I can't contradict the press. I musn't do that to Lucas. I'll ride it out. They will get bored of it eventually.
Eventually.

It's cruel.
I hate the world.

Away Games: The Wrong Idea

2008-05-18T15:53:07Z

Previous chapter, Eight, Seven, Six, Five, Four, Three, Two, One, Prologue

Title: Away Games: The Wrong Idea
Pairing: Lucas Leiva / Fernando Torres
Rating: NC-13
Disclaimer: As always, if only.

Despite the efforts of the FA to bring football culture into the 21st century, there are an astonishing amount of people involved in the game who are blindly homophobic. The thought of how many boardroom staff and chairpeople who would look differently upon me if they were to find out about my sexuality disturbs me.
But the thought of what those hundreds of thousands of fans would do the next time I dared to set foot on a pitch absolutely terrifies me.

I know Fernando is thinking exactly the same thing as he jerks away from me, smoothes his hair and peers distractedly over his shoulder, desperately searching for the source of the flash.
The reputation he has nurtured with so much care and hard work would come crashing all around him if his legions of traditional football fans saw him holding me like that on the front page of The News of the World.

'Where the fuck did that come from?' he mutters.
He bites his lip agitatedly, his eyes darting around the room. The colour drains from his face.
'They were probably just taking the publicity photos,' I suggest.
It doesn't satisfy him.
'You'd better keep your distance from me in public from now on.'
'But - '
'It'll be better for both of us,' he says firmly.
His eyes still troubled, he walks swiftly over to Alvaro and Pepe where he is immediately immersed in conversation.
I stay by myself for the remainder of the evening.

That night it begins to really hit home.

I remember Justin Fashanu, and all the hurtful accusations that circulated in the press after he came out. He had realised that the entire footballing community had turned against him, and thought him guilty for obscenities that there were a resounding lack of evidence for, simply because he was gay.
He hanged himself.
Fernando is such a star now. What would happen to him? Would the Liverpool faithful put aside their collective predudice for the Spaniard whose name rings from the rafters even during the games in which he isn't playing?
Or not?
I lie by myself feeling completely wretched. If Fernando's credibility was destroyed by this, then it would be all my fault.
I curl up under the covers, my knees underneath my chin. I feel like a little boy again.
I wish I was so young that I didn't know what all these words with all their connotations and interpretations mean, and that the dull throbbing in my stomach was the result of too much ice cream and ketchup.
I wish I was back in Brazil.

The morning comes far too soon. In half an hour we have to be at Park Square for training. Tonight we play Chelsea.
I hardly got any sleep, and long to roll back over and block out the sunlight. But try as I might, I can't ignore Dirk's persistant rouses and various physical attempts to drag me out of bed.
I don't know what I was expecting when I entered the lobby, but it wasn't the ominous silence and hasty folding of newspapers. Everyone's eyes are on me. I can't see Fernando anywhere.

'Lucas.'
Fabio is at my shoulder.
'I think you'd better have a look at this.'
I take the paper from him and unfold it with trembling hands.

There we are on the front page. In spite of our attempts to hide behind the plant the photographer had a painfully clear view.
We are captured in the heart of our kiss, his hands are in my hair. This is the first time I'm able to see his expression as he kisses me. The chiselled angles of his face have softened and his eyes are closed like mine.
He looks happy.
We look good together.
Then I read the first paragraph.

'Spanish international Fernando Torres has clearly taken promising Brazillian starlet Lucas Leiva under his wing in more ways than one. Liverpool striker Torres appears to have put all thought of the crucial approaching match against Chelsea out of his mind as he enjoys a not-so-private moment with Lucas last night during a charity dinner in a West London hotel...'
I scan the article in horror.
'....that Torres' new found fame may have gone to his head as there was nothing to suggest that Lucas had consented to the kiss. Torres may have seen Lucas purely as a way to boost his own ego ... thinks he is superior to the rest of the team ... taking advantage of younger players.....'

My head spins. I look up. They watched me read it. I can tell from their resigned expressions that they realise that the warped story printed here isn't real.
But the kiss was.
The camera never lies.

I fight to keep my voice steady, but I can't stop a tear from sliding down my cheek.
'Where's Fernando?'

Away Games: Flash

2008-05-13T17:48:23Z

Previous chapter, Seven, Six, Five, Four, Three, Two, One, Prologue

Title: Away Games: Flash
Pairing: Lucas Leiva / Fernando Torres
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: As always, if only.

I am raw when I come down for dinner that evening.
My skin is scorched with burning weals. I wince whenever I take a step.

Whenever a player in our friendship group boasts of a night of unconventional sadomassochicm with his current girlfriend, the lads call it 'playing away games', deviating from conformity.
I loathe how they make a mockery of it. They do it just so they can say they have done. They don't practise it how it should be practised; as a passion, as a beautiful addiction.

Fernando was merciless. I am hoarse from screaming at him to stop and I have a black eye blooming where he became careless. There are scarlet bands on my wrists where the manacles bit into me and purple blemishes on my neck from where he bit into me.
I'd never felt so much pain in my life - I was completely powerless as he lashed me with the sensuous leather of his bullwhip.

I never wanted it to end.

I suppress a shiver of pleasure and enter the dining room.
Representatives of our sponsors are here. Everyone is in formal dress and looking uncomfortable. Ah. It's one of those dinners. We have to be on our best behaviour.
I automatically go and stand as close to Fernando as decency permits. He is staring thoughtfully into a glass of red wine, twirling it idly in his fingers.
The weals sear. I smile.

'What are you thinking about?'
The question was intended as a playful jibe, but he looks strangly guarded as he turns to me.
'Why?'
'No reason,' I say hastily, blushing.

It occurs to me that I'd been loving Fernando from afar for so long that I already feel he should be sharing everything with me. Fernando, however, still hardly knew me.

His eyes regard mine with what I consider to be cool indifference.
'It's spectacular,' he says quietly.
It takes me a moment to realise that he is talking about my black eye.
I checked it in the mirror outside the room; all deep purples and unnatural blues.
'It's like a sunset in negative,' he muses, with a hint of a smirk.
He reaches forwards to touch it. I instinctively lean away from him.
He raises his eyebrows.
'Don't back away from me.'
He winds his hand through my hair and jerks me towards him. Very gently, he strokes his finger across my sore, discoloured eyelid. I daren't flinch.
He owns me completely, and he knows it.
'Does it hurt?'
'Not really.'
'It should do.'
For a second I wonder whether he's going to press harder, to make it hurt.
But he doesn't.
He smiles broadly at me and drapes his arm casually around my shoulders. We stand companionably for a while, him sipping his wine and me gazing up at him in open adoration. We know there are paparazzi in the room so we are half hidden behind a large ornamental plant.
'A sunset in negative?'
He looks at me.
'Is that really what it looks like?'
'Maybe not on anyone else, perhaps.' He brushes a few strands of my hair away from my face. 'But the colours are so strange and you are so pale. It looks quite haunting on you.'
I blush again.

'Come on. We'd better sit down.'
I hurry forwards, knock into him in my haste to obey, and his wine spills all down his suit.
'Shit - '
I am mortified.
'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!'
'It was an accident - '
'I am such an idiot, I'm really sorry - '
'Stop with the apologies!'
'I really am - '

He drops his empty glass and clasps me firmly by my upper arms. He looks deep into my eyes, into me.
He sees me.
'Right here, right now, do you want to cut yourself?'
My breath catches in my throat. He hardly knows me, yet he knows me well enough for this.
He doesn't wait for an answer. He plants his wondrous signature kiss squarely on my lips.
I don't even think of my knife.
He is my passion, my beautiful addiction.

But... what happens afterwards?

I am just returning to my senses as I see the brilliant white of a camera flash from behind the blissful darkness of my closed eyes...

Away Games: Broken Promise

2008-05-10T22:28:48Z

Previous chapter, Six, Five, Four, Three, Two, One, Prologue

Title: Away Games: Broken Promise
Pairing: Lucas Leiva / Fernando Torres
Rating: R
Warning: A little bit of kink.
Disclaimer: As always, if only.

It's driving me insane.
The clock. It's ticking. That's what clocks do. They tick. This one ticks far too loudly. It's all I can hear. My head throbs with the rhythm. The time is passing so slowly.
I have to keep looking at the clock.
I can't lower my eyeline. I musn't look at the knife.
He said he'd be back in an hour. One hour.

All he asked is that I just ignore the knife. Act like it's not even there.

Watch some TV, he said. There's a good film on soon. Order room service, he said. There's a cocktail genius on the ground floor.
Act like it's not even there.
But it is.
I let myself look at it. He'd placed it on top of the dresser, so that the light dances across the gleaming blade. The glossy sheen is so tempting.
I want to hold it so badly.
I clasp my hands tightly. I musn't. I'd promised him.
But I wouldn't actually do anything with it. I'd just hold it.
I stretch my hand out towards it. I touch it. The cool, smooth steel feels like home.

The door opens just as the apex pierces my skin. I swear inwardly, disgusted with myself. I might as well finish what I'd started.
Before I can cleave myself his strong hand takes the knife and firmly wrenches it from me.
'What are we going to do with you?'
'Let me do it.'
'No.'
'Please.'
'No.'
I fight in vain against the powerful arms that now embrace me. He holds me tighter. I try to twist away from him. Then the knife is at my throat. His voice comes low and harsh.

'Move and I cut you. And this one won't heal.'

The effect is instantaneous. Prurience courses through me like electricity. The hairs at my nape stand on end. I can't move. I have to do what he says.
He holds me tighter.
Like a prisoner.
I melt.

I am on the floor, face down. He straddles me, carefully keeping the knife precariously close to my throat. I daren't even breathe too heavily.
'Here's what I'm going to do.'
I swallow, with difficulty.
'I'm going to get up. You're not. You're to stay precisely where you are, understood?'
I incline my head.
I feel the pressure leave my back. I hear his footsteps, a drawer opening, muffled movement, a drawer closing, returning footsteps.
He's back on top of me. He places what I recognise as the knife against the back of my neck. I feel something soft trail along my shoulders. He brings it down in front of my eyes and ties it - tightly - behind my head.

A blindfold.

I then hear a metallic clinking before I am dragged into a sitting position against what must be the foot of my bed.
I feel cold encircle both my wrists, biting into my skin.

Handcuffs.

My hands secured behind me, my sight stolen from me and Fernando standing before me holding my knife.
I can smell the steel. The knife must be inches from my face.
I am in a state of blazing, consuming arousal.
'Do you like this?'
Believe me...
'You must do. I don't even need to take off your jeans to tell.'
He sounds so cold, so unlike himself.

The Fernando I fell for was kind, gentle and forgiving, so beautiful in personality and in presence. It's difficult to know what to make of this new one. The sheer lust searing my insides and streaming from me decides for me. Change is good.

I find my voice at last.
'What are you going to -'
He presses his mouth onto mine, smothering the remainder of my sentence. He tastes reassuringly familiar.

It's still him.

I love him so much.

He moves away. I lean forwards, desperate to keep my lips in connection with his.
I feel something new on my skin.
Leather.
Oh God.
'Let me get this obsession with pain out of your system. For good.'