onyxexistance: (Pushing Daisies {bad day})
[personal profile] onyxexistance
Title: All the Way to the Edge of Desire Part 1
Fandom/Pairing: Real Madrid - Cristiano Ronaldo/Mesut Özil
Rating: R
Author:[livejournal.com profile] onyxexistance  / [livejournal.com profile] openmoments 
Spoilers: None.
Word Count: 5, 395
Summary: It's Mesut's birthday, but he doesn't believe in birthday wishes. Cristiano tries to change his mind. 
Disclaimers: If I owned this team, do you think I would be writing fic?
Prompt: Birthday sex. 
Author's Notes: Written for [livejournal.com profile] cagedlight who had a birthday post for Mesut and who wrote birthday!sex fic first and then admitted to crazy shit and writing this with you cheering me on was more than half the fun, chica. Thank you!

Just because it’s his birthday doesn’t mean he gets all his wishes. He feels the minutes go by and feels that ache of desperation settle in the pit of his stomach, the burn, the need to have a goal to his name on this day of any of them. But then he’s called off and he’s doing everything he can to stay in control and the thrill of winning the game is overshadowed by his own failure.

He does a good job though, smiling and climbing all over Sergio and hugging Sami and having his hair ruffled and everyone makes sure to keep the small notes of pity out of their eyes. But then two sets of eyes collide and there’s that mutual understanding that comes from a mutual loss and all of a sudden there’s this peace that settles on him and he calms down, just a fraction.

He remembers twenty three. Fuck, he feels old now, maybe he’s getting there. Not that his body’s giving up on him or he’s close to being finished. Not even, not even close. But maybe he’s expecting things of himself that can’t be accomplished anymore. Even though he’s a part of a team, one that’s more of a family than anything, he still always would look out for himself. Take the ball all the way, find a way, fight a way, but now....

“Thank you,” Higuain whispers in his ear, and he turns his head, catching the look of ridiculous joy on his face, and he smiles back, honest and true because he knows that feeling, relishes in it, and he knows that he’s the one who gave Higuain that smile.

“What are teammates for?” he asks and his chin’s resting on his shoulder as they’re all wrapped in each other and he catches Mesut’s eye and knows that he’s been found out. You can’t keep a secret from someone who has the same one and he quickly diverts his eyes.

There’s a party planned afterwards, and the combination of both a win and a birthday raises the excitement, the energy, the noise higher and he wants to participate, but can’t. His body’s there and watching everyone and he knows there’s a smile on his face, he can feel the edges of his mouth stretching, the corners of his eyes crinkling, but inside he’s floating above it and couldn’t tell you who’s arms are around him now or who’s yelling in his ear. He can’t.

A cake appears in front of him and his teammates are hollering, telling him to make a wish, but the only one he had for today didn’t come true and the chance has already passed, so instead he fakes thinking and blows them all out instead, hoping someone else made a wish on that breathe.

The boys drink when they’re happy, and tonight they’re really happy. He’s been staring into his orange juice for the last hour and knows it’s better than putting them back like Sergio over there, who’s all of a sudden got a flower in his ridiculous hair and is shaking his hips obscenely to the music and normally he’d be roaring over there with the rest of them but can’t bring himself to feign the energy right now, or the interest, so instead he just downs the rest of his glass and plays with the rim of his cup. He knows it’s more than just about him, and he is glad they won, he’s not as self centered a bastard as people might think, but the need to know that he’s still needed is tugging his emotions towards the ground and all of a sudden he can’t breathe properly so he makes a beeline for the door and at the back of his mind hopes Mesut won’t think he’s bailing.

The burst of cool night air on his face wakes him up, pulls him out of his head a bit and he sits on the bench, head back against the building’s wall, eyes closing as he pulls in lung fulls of night air. He just wants a few minutes. That’s all he’s asking.

After a minute however, he hears the smack of rubber on cement and one eye opens in curiousity, then he shrugs and goes back to just trying to breathe again. He hears it again smack and again smack and he knows that sound so well, lives, breathes, dreams it and it pulls him towards it.

When he sees who it is, he knows he should have known and stands there, watching. There’s a reason why everyone fawns over Mesut, praises him, why they all want him. It’s a natural feeling when someone has talent like he does.

He didn’t mean to leave his own party, but he knows that no one noticed. They’re all drinking away and he knows that, by now, Sergio’s got some ridiculous stunt going on and that everyone’ll be having fun and he feels guilty that he can’t get there. That instead of being elated and happy for the team, he’s upset about himself and the failure to perform like he feels he should be able to.

Of course he knows that people always put more pressure on themselves than they need to, that he played well, maybe not his best, but well, that it’s not who scored the goals, but that they were scored. He knows that. But that doesn’t mean he’s happy about that, that he’s content with that outcome.

Sitting back in the restaurant, watching everyone laughing and joking and touching, celebrating, he’d felt something break inside of him, knowing that, instead of celebrating everything that had happened over the last few years, he was moping over one day, one goal, one thing that didn’t happen. He’d stood up and left, muttering something about the washroom to whoever was listening and had escaped outside.

He had only meant to be out for a bit, to go back, smile and feel like he was actually there. But then he’d spied the football resting in the back of his vehicle and couldn’t resist the temptation. Football, at the very heart of it, was his anchor. It was his base, his heart, his nature.

He keeps telling himself only a few more minutes, that after this he’ll go back inside, that they’ll wonder if he fell into the toilet. But then he focuses on the ball and his breathing and he doesn’t care anymore and it’s, “In a few more minutes.”

The way he moves really is something poets would write about. He’s in awe, watching the fluid movements, the way he uses his space, and just in the parking lot outside of a restaurant. His jacket’s been tossed to the side and his sleeves have been rolled up and the fact that he’s wearing dress shoes and kicking around a beaten up football makes him smile. He knows why the birthday boy’s out here, it’s the same reason he is. He could see it on his face as he was subbed off the field. The absolute disappointment that he wore as he made his way to one of the chairs was hard for him to ignore since it perfectly matched his own. Now he’s watching the look of concentration on his face and wanting to smooth it out, tell him he’s too young to worry so much. Except that it’s not something he believes about himself, so how can he justify saying it to someone else?

His body’s already tired from the game, his muscles are screaming at him to just stop already, there’s sweat trickling down the back of his neck, and dress shoes really aren’t meant for sports. He doesn’t want to, it feels too much like giving up, but he sits down on the sidewalk leading up to the restaurant anyways. The football rolls lazily between his feet before escaping and he’s too tired to care right now. His head drops to his knees and his hands thread into his hair and he knows going to bed and sleeping his disappointment off is the only solution and that things will be better in the morning, but right now he’s going to allow himself this.

He looks up only when the football comes rolling back at him and he sees a pair of dress shoes that could only belong to one person, dress pants, and Cris’s slanted grin. The one he wears when he’s trying to hide something, but doesn’t want anyone to know. He picks up the football, dragging a thumbnail over the stitching in the leather.

“What’re you doing out here?” he asks, finger tracing the hexagons.

Cris kicks his foot, “Looking for you, birthday boy. Shouldn’t you be in, celebrating with everyone else?”

Something tells him that wasn’t the reason, but he’s too tired to say anything and just shrugs non committally. Cris understands though and sits down next to him. There’s no words for this and they sit in silence.

“They’re going to miss you, you know,” Cris tries again, and he smiles. “No they won’t. Or else they’d all be out looking for me, a great pack of half drunken happy boys,” he answers lovingly. Cris laughs because he knows it’s true and neither would be surprised if all of them burst through the doors, calling out either one of their names.

There’s a silence and he shivers a bit, but his jacket’s too far away for him to bother getting right now. “You know you played well today,” Cris tells him in a way that sounds like a question and he chokes out a bitter laugh because is it really that obvious how pouty he’s being?

Cris reads into it properly and continues, “You did. And I know,” here he pauses for a moment and he realizes that this is going to be hard for him to say, he saw his face today, “I know how much it hurts when it’s not you, but you played well. And you’ll work up to playing a full game,” he adds, bumping shoulders.

Mesut shakes his head and Cris looks at him and now that he’s cooled down, the wind’s blowing across the cooled sweat and he really needs his jacket. He looks up at the night sky and then back down to Cris and smiles tiredly, “You still have it, you know,” he says and Cris gets this confused look on his face and then shrugs. 
“Maybe. Sometimes I wonder,” he admits, staring at the cracks in the pavement.

Mesut doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything and they just sit there. They can hear the guys inside laughing and smile at the thought of the antics that some of them must be up to at this point. Finally, Cris looks at him, “Want to go? I’m not ready to back inside, and you look like you’re about to fall asleep out here.”

He chuckles tiredly, looking back at the ball in his hands, “Yeah, yeah I could do with leaving,” he admits, “To be honest,” he adds as they get up, brush off their pants, “I could have just gone home afterwards.”

“Sami wouldn’t let you?”

“Not even. Chose my clothes and shoved me out the door, telling me I had to celebrate and that birthday sex only comes around once a year,” he explains as he picks up his jacket, frowns at the dust on it.

“Is that what you wished for?” Cris asks him as they make their way to Cris’s vehicle, leaving Mesut’s for Sami.

There’s a pause, then, “No. I didn’t make one.”

“Why not?” there are frown lines on Cris’s forehead as he starts the car and they pull out.

Mesut just shrugs, staring out the window. “I’d already lost my chance,” and Cris knows better than to say anything else.

He intends to only drop Mesut off and then go home, but then he gets invited in and why the hell not? Neither of them drink so he’s ready for the water bottle that gets thrown his way and they settle in the living. He stretches out on the couch as Mesut lays on the floor, eagle spread.

They drink in silence and finally he has to ask, because it’s been bothering him, “No wish at all?”

Mesut twists his head to look at him, a confused look on his face and then just shrugs as he brings his water bottle up to his lips. “I’m not a big believer in wishes,” he replies, pauses for a moment, and Cris doesn’t say anything, understands by the way he’s playing with the water bottle there’s more he wants to say. He starts, then stops, starts again and comes up with, “I didn’t get here on wishes, you know?” he asks, though it’s not a question, “I worked for it, and,” here he pauses again, an uncertain look clouding his face and Cris slithers off the couch, lays next to him.

“Yeah?” he whispers, wanting him to finish.

Mesut looks up from the water bottle he’s so intent on, and blows out a sigh, “It feels childish, you know?” and Cris fights the urge to let a laugh out and smiles instead. He knows Mesut understands because he laughs first, flings a hand over his face, “It’s ridiculous, I know.”

Cris props himself up his elbows, poking him in the side, “No, not it’s not,” he tells him, and is rewarded with an unbelieving look and he gets a tiny bit serious, “No, Mesut, it’s not,” he tells him, fingers playing with the untucked part of his shirt.

“You’re one of the best footballers in the world right now,” he starts and pokes him when he hears the snort of contradiction, “Oh shut up, you know it,” he says, “and that’s not a bad thing. But you are, and that tends to make you grow up,” and right now he knows he’s not just talking about his friend.

“But?” Mesut prompts and he smiles because he’s quick and shakes his head, “But, wishing on cakes and falling stars isn’t bad. Baby Cris and I do it all the time,” he says propping his chin on his stacked fists, looking up through his eyelashes.



He watches as Mesut lays back, can see the thoughts swirling around that head of his, and pushes himself up, extends his hand, “C’mon.”

He gets a quirk of eyebrows and jerks his head to the side, repeats, “C’mon,” wiggling his fingers and Mesut’s warm palm slips into his and he’s tugging the birthday boy up to his feet. 
“What do you want?” he’s asked but he just shakes his head, heads to the kitchen.

They celebrated something here last year, he can’t remember what it was, but knows that there’s no way Mesut or Sami would have gotten rid of the candles. He looks in the cupboard above the oven and rummages around for a bit, standing on his tiptoes and finds them at the back of the cupboard. Mesut’s looking at him like he’s nuts, but he just smiles, jogs back to the couch where he left his jacket and finds the lighter he has there.

Mesut’s trailed after him and is leaning against the door way, arms crossed, dress shirt all untucked and this secret smile creeping on his face.
“What are you doing?” he asks, even though he knows by now and Cris just smiles in response.

“Are you serious?”


He rolls his eyes but watches as the lighter’s flicked, the flame flaring into life and Cris holds up one of the candles, lets it catch and steps closer.

“What?” Mesut asks and Cris gives him this look like he’s an idiot (and maybe he is), but knows he needs a bit of prodding.

“Blow it out,” he instructs and Mesut does it, a, ‘Now what?’ look on his face and he can’t help but laugh.

“What?” he asks pitifully and Cris bumps their foreheads together.

“Did you make a wish?” he asks.

There’s a pause and his face closes in on itself a bit and he sighs, “Again,” he instructs and this time he bites his lip for a moment before pursing his lips and blowing it out.

“Did you actually make a wish?” he asks and the younger man gives him a look.

“Why is this so important to you?”

He can’t explain why, but it is, and he just shrugs as he flicks the lighter on, holds the candle up to it, watches as it catches, and sticks it back into Mesut’s face, “Again. Make a wish,” he instructs and he blows out a breathe of frustration.

“This is ridiculous!” Mesut tells him, but bites his lip as he stares at the candle, the wax dripping hot down the side.

Cris shakes his head, “It’s not about the wish itself,” he tells him, and Mesut gives him a tired look. He smiles, “It’s about the ability to give yourself permission to wish for something,” he explains.
There’s a pause and he can hear Mesut thinking and then, “What do you wish for?”

He didn’t expect that and licks his lips before admitting, “I wish for little things.”


“Like...like that Baby Cris is happy only having me for a parent. Or that the weather will be nice out on our trips, or that we continue to get along. Little things,” he shrugs and winces as the hot wax drips onto his thumb and pointer finger.

“Are you going to make a wish or not?” he asks, eyes jumping to the slowly cooling spot on his fingers.

Mesut gives him a shit eating grin, and bites his lip for a moment, before nodding his head. He closes his eyes, purses his lips and blows.

He looks up and smiles, “I made a wish this time, don’t worry,” and Cris smiles and makes his way to the kitchen, tossing the candles to the side, too tired to care about putting them away. They roll down the counter and bump up against the side of the sink. He moves to start peeling the cooled wax off his fingers, but all of a sudden Mesut’s there, fingers gentle as he takes Cris’s hand in his own, fingernails scraping under the wax, and Cris swallows, looks up from where the bright pink wax is being pulled off and to Mesut, who’s eyes snap up, watch his own, Adam’s apple bobbing.

Part two. 


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