Title: Making Up & Making Out Ch. 4
Fandom/Pairing: Real Madrid - Cristiano Ronaldo/Mesut Özil, one-sided Mesut Özil/Sami Khedira, past Cristiano Ronaldo/Kaká
Author: onyxexistance / openmoments
Word Count: 1, 511
Summary: "So, things worked out for you, didn't they?" "Yeah, I guess they did."
Disclaimers: If I owned this team, do you think I would be writing fic?
Prompt: This prompt over at footballkink2: One-sided Crozil. A smidge of Criska.
Mesut gives and gives, hoping that one day Cris will see him in a different light.
Author's Notes: This got a little bit away from the prompt, but I do really like how it turned out. And here is chapter four. I'm so sorry that it took so long for me to post it up. But! I hope you enjoy it, and that you've enjoyed all of this story! I had a lot of fun writing it, and I'm so pleased with the response people have given me. :)
“Mesut! You’re smiling again! What lucky lady made you lucky?” Sergio calls out and this time Sami whacks him in the back of the head with his duffel bag and he adds, “Eh! You guys need to watch out with those things! They hurt!” and the locker room fills with barks of laughter.
“We’re sure she feels she’s lucky,” Iker calls out with a wink as he makes his way out, Sergio sputtering as his headband dangles from his fingers.
“He says something and nothing happens to him. Me? I say what everyone’s thinking and I get whacked. I see how it is. Thanks guys,” he pouts as he makes his way out and Iker laughs as he tugs his friend in and snaps his headband over his forehead as they make their way out, Sergio’s cries of protest echoing back into the locker room.
“So you guys made up?” Cris asks, breathe warm on the back of his neck and Mesut leans back into it, just a fraction.
“Yeah, we did,” he answers as his gaze slides across the row of lockers to Sami, who looks up, grins and throws a wink before going back to rummaging in his back while talking to Benz.
“I hope that was just making up and not making out,” Cris teases and he rolls his eyes.
“Only about you,” and he turns around in time to see Cris wink as he makes his way out of the locker room.
He feels someone come to stand beside him as he ties his cleats and looks up into the somewhat pained face of Kaká.
“Sit?” he asks and he does, a pause heavy for a few moments before Kaká speaks.
“He loves you you know,” and Mesut’s heard a variation of that so many times in the last few weeks that he just laughs because he doesn’t know what else to do.
Kaká smiles, kindly, “No, I’m serious. He does.”
It slips before he gets a chance to think it over, “How do you know?” and it’s a little sarcastic and he winces at the way they sound but his friend (yes, friend) just laughs.
“Because,” he answers, kindly, “that’s the same look he used to give me, back when...” and the sentence ends, but Mesut knows what he’s saying and he looks and his hands resting on his knees for a moment before looking back up into those kind eyes.
“Thank you. That means a lot to me,” he says, smiles. “We’re okay?” and this is something he needs to know.
Kaká nods, smile broadening, just a bit, “Yes, we’re okay. He....he loved me, but he needed you,” and Mesut doesn’t know if that makes any sense, and Kaká adds, “And he’s luckier than he knows right now. But he will. He will,” and gets up, leaving him wondering if anyone he knows will ever make sense at any point.
But then Cris appears in the entrance to the empty locker room, his big crooked child like smile stretching his face, eyes all bright, and he calls out, “Are you coming?” and he laughs because he’s happy and he runs up and doesn’t stop until he’s in Cris’s space, flush up against him and slips his hands around his waist, taps his forehead to his.
“Always for you,” and kisses him, teases his lip with his tongue and then slides it in and then smiles when he hears, feels, Cris sigh.
Cris pulls back, a dorky smile on his face and says, “You’re always going to come for me, are you?” winks and Mesut groans as Cris leans in for another kiss and Mesut’s fingers curl into the fabric at the back of his jersey.
“I’m holding you to that,” Cris tells him, waggling his eyebrows and leading him on to the pitch.
The first time he kissed Cristiano Ronaldo, it was pure magic. It was when he was sure the famous football player was going to look at him in disgust and let him drown. When he was sure he’d have to crawl back to Sami in broken pieces and hope, pray, beg that his friend take him back because he was right, he’d always been right and Cris really was just toying with him.
But, instead, the famous footballer with an ego as huge as an elephant, who put himself up on a (bit of a) pedestal, who winked at pretty girls on an hourly basis, rescued him. Pulled him out of the cold waters, towed him to dry land, and pushed oxygen back into his lungs.
“You,” Mesut says and hears static in his ears and can’t breathe and his vision goes fuzzy and then he hears Cris.
“Are you listening to me, Mesut?” and his eyebrows are all up in his hairline and Mesut can just manage to shake his head.
Cris laughs, “Figures. I always figured you were a bit of a fragile one,” then smiles when he feels himself being insulted, “There we go. Now you’re listening,” and Mesut wonders what he missed on.
“As I was saying,” Cris says and all of a sudden he’s moving in to his space and he forgets how to breathe and Cris’s eyes are all he can see, and then his eyes dart down to his mouth and back up to his eyes and he thinks he knows what Cris was saying but doesn’t know for sure and hesitates. That’s when Cris clarifies things, moves in, presses up against him and for the first time Mesut sees those fireworks people talk about.
He moans and feels Cris’s mouth curve in a smile against his and his hands make their up along his shirtless torso, too eager to feel it all to feel it all slowly. His short nails scrabble against the smooth, firm skin he finds there and Cris bites his lip and his nails dig into the skin right at his hip bones and Cris’s fingers wind themselves in the long shaggy hair, tug his head back a centimeter and his teeth nip at the corner of his mouth, the corner where his jaw and throat meet, down the tendon, and he swallows when Cris’s mouth finds his collar bone, sucks a mark onto it.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for so long,” Cris whispers out, voice husky and honest and raw and Mesut doesn’t know what to say so he goes for the truth.
“I’ve wanted you to want that for so long,” and it’s cheesy and ridiculous but that’s how he feels and Cris swallows, nods, and leans back in.
So they are: they’re cheesy and Cris surprises him with flowers and makes him raise his eyebrows and he puts them in the sink, where Cris rescues them and sticks them in a vase while Sami watches from his spot on the couch or from the kitchen where he’s perched on the counter, waiting for the water to boil.
And they take Sami out, which Mesut thinks is going to be the most awkward thing ever but it turns out it’s not because he’s Mesut’s best friend and Cris has this ridiculous thing with wanting to get to know the important people in his life and Mesut wonders if he’ll ever stop doing things that make him roll his eyes or raise his eyebrows but he highly doubts it and he’s really quite okay with that because he loves it.
He loves it, and he loves Cris, even with his drama queen moments on the pitch, and in the bathroom, and in the bedroom. He allows himself to be dragged to the mall and to the stores for hours on end, to tell Cris whether or not something works for him (he’s never told him something hasn’t) and ends up pushed up against the changing room wall at some point, normally by a shirtless Cris with a devilish look in his eye and if he didn’t anticipate it so much he’d probably tell him to at least pretend like he knows how to be decent.
In the end: they’re happy and it’s kind of like a fairytale, except that one night when he stormed out of Cris’s place and Sami told him they had to talk because that’s what you do in relationships, at least the ones that work out, all while balancing on his stomach. Or that other day when Cris got up and walked out of a restaurant because Mesut was too friendly with the waiter and Mesut walked all the way to his place and banged on his door for fifteen minutes before Cris told him he was going to wake up Baby Cris if he didn’t shut the fuck up and that’s when Mesut stepped forward and pressed him up against the side of the house and told him he was going to be the one to wake the baby and they barely made it to the bedroom.
And really: they’re happy. They’re happy and that’s all they ever really wanted.