onyxexistance: (Crozil {they'll tell stories of us})
[personal profile] onyxexistance
Title: Making Up & Making Out Ch. 3
Fandom/Pairing: Real Madrid - Cristiano Ronaldo/Mesut Özil, one-sided Mesut Özil/Sami Khedira, past Cristiano Ronaldo/Kaká
Rating: M
Author: [livejournal.com profile] onyxexistance / [livejournal.com profile] openmoments
Spoilers: None.
Word Count: 3, 564
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 [livejournal.com profile] footballkink2One-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. 

“He said what?” Sami asks through a burst of laughter and Mesut wants to play feeling hurt but can’t because he smiles as well and repeats.

“That I need help,” and Sami goes into another bout of loud laughter and it makes him smile even wider.

“Oh God, but do you ever,” Sami says and laughs when Mesut punches his shoulder, “If Cris has finally noticed, Mesut, you really do,” and it’s half in jest, half in truth and he sobers up, nods.

“No, I know. But,” he adds, “It wasn’t about...” and he doesn’t know how to explain, describe, whatever it is, but Sami gets it, so he just moves on, “It was about football. So,” and he stops and Sami lets out a frustrated breath.

“So you guys are practicing, am I right?” and Mesut doesn’t say anything, just nods. 

The car’s quiet and things are tense and he figures he shouldn’t have said anything because Sami’s face is pensive and there’s a crease in his forehead. He knows that the drive’s only supposed to be a few more minutes longer, but it ends up feeling like it’s hours, the minutes stretched out to look like more than they really are. 

They finally arrive and Sami sticks the car in park and they sit there. He sits staring at his hands, can’t force his eyes to look up and the silence is stifling. 

Finally Sami breaks it with a choked out, “You’re going to get hurt again, and I can’t...,” here he has to choke out the rest of his sentence, “I can’t deal with this anymore,” and all of a sudden Mesut’s the only one sitting in the car, still looking at his hands.

The next three weeks are spent with separate car rides, with doors closing as others open, with cold, tense meals that lead to lonely meals. 

But his practices go well, his moments with Cris on the pitch his favourite moments. Some days it’s late and they’re tired and it’s slow and quiet and stressful, and other days it’s loud and they play dirty, feet fighting each other for the ball, bodies crashing into each other and bruises blooming as they wash up. 

“What happened between you and Sami?” Cris finally asks after one of their extra practices. 

Mesut stops in the middle of drying his hair, stairs at the fibres of his towel, swallows and can feel Cris look at his back, the hairs standing up on the back of his neck.

“Nothing,” he says, hoping the towel muffles his voice enough so Cris can’t feel the hitch in his voice.

The towel’s ripped from his hands and he looks up through the damp ends up his hair that drag into his eyes up at Cris, shirtless, holding the soggy towel in his hands, and ‘you’re an idiot’ look on his face.

“Please don’t lie to me,” he asks and Mesut’s never heard that tone before, soft and slightly sad, hurt, and he can’t.

He sighs and looks back down at his hands, “We’re just....we’re arguing, I guess,” and he laughs drily because fuck, he doesn’t know what it is right now that they’re fighting about and they’ve never gone on this long without talking (words are sparse and it’s only when necessary. “Did you get groceries?” “Practice time was changed.” “Mou said black logoless shirts only, go change.”), and he feels as if part of him is missing. 

“You guess?” and he doesn’t know how to explain it to Cris, who moves, sits down next to him and he nods, shrugs.

“Yeah. We didn’t really have a falling out,” he admits, and this is the moment, this is when he has to acknowledge feelings and truths and he doesn’t know if he’s ready for it, but he dives right in because in life that’s what you do. 

“You didn’t?” and he has to laugh at the absolute confusion in Cris’s voice and he shakes his head.

“No, we didn’t,” and he pauses, knows that this is where he plunges himself in and continues, “We more had a...a disagreement and Sami decided that he couldn’t support what I was doing,” and Cris tries to interrupt, but he cuts him off, “and I can’t blame him,” and looks at Cris, tilts his head and smiles ruefully, “I really can’t. I would have done it sooner if I was him. He’s got a lot more patience than I do.”

“That’s not true,” Cris moves to say but he shakes his head.

“No, it is and I know that. I’m lucky that Sami was willing to stick with me and the...situation for as long as he did. In his way,” he ponders, “I guess he’s still being my friend, if that makes any sense,” and it’s quiet for a few moments, and Cris is looking at him, searching his eyes, and he finally has to drop them to the tiled floor.

“What was the ‘situation’ that you guys weren’t agreeing on?” Cris asks, and of course he gets straight to the heart of the matter.

Here Mesut has to swallow, bites his lip and finally looks up after a moment, a pause, and now he knows this is either where he sinks or, “You,” or where he manages to make it to shore and survive. 

“What’re you so happy about, pretty boy?” Sergio asks him the next day during practice, eyes watching him walk by from his spot on the bench where he’s tying up his cleats.

“Nothing. Just happy,” he replies through a large smile as he makes his way to the locker. 

“Nobody’s happy for no reason,” Marcelo tosses in and Mesut rolls his eyes as he grabs the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head.

“People can be happy for all sorts of reason. And just because is definitely a reason,” he points out as he tosses his shirt into his locker and grabs his practice jersey.

“That’s bullshit!” Sergio calls out as he fits his headband around the top part of his head, “The only reason a man is ever happy is because he’s getting laid on a regular basis,” he says seriously as the room erupts in laughter.

“It’s true!” he defends, “Or,” he adds as he walks up to Mesut, squints his eyes at him, as if trying to study him, “if he’s suddenly getting laid after a dry spell.”

“Did your mother teach you that?” Cris asks as he walks in, smacks Sergio in the back of the head with his bag as he makes his way to his locker and Mesut turns back to face his locker, sticks his arms through his practice jersey, hides his smile. 

Sergio rubs the spot on the back of his head, looks over at Cris, mock hurt on his face as he asks, “What? You don’t agree?” which is followed by catcalls and Iker claps a hand on Cris’s shoulder as he makes his way to the door.

“He does have a point, you know,” and he dances out of the way as Cris lunges for him and Sergio high fives him as they make their way out of their day. 

Mesut looks up, grin plastered on his face, and his eyes collide with Sami’s, dark and sad, who turns back to his locker, closes it and jogs out, Mesut staring at his back until Cris comes up, fills his eye space, all crooked smile and dancing eyes and he can’t help but smile in return.

It’s not for another week until Mou pulls him aside, tells him he’s impressed with the improvements he’s been seeing, says he’ll start the next game, and he doesn’t think his feet are touching the ground anymore.

“Did we do it?” Cris asks as he gets into the locker room and he doesn’t know why he asked because the corners of his cheeks are touching the corners of his eyes, but he nods and Cris swoops in for a hug. Tight and close and Mesut can smell the body wash on his skin, and smiles into his shoulder.

Cris pulls back, ducks his head the two inches, slips his hand up the back of Mesut’s head, cups it, “I knew you could do it,” and he feels his grin stretch and suddenly he’s kissing him and it’s tongue and teeth and he sighs when Cris sucks on his bottom lip and he pulls away before he gets too dizzy.

“I need to go shower,” he mutters and Cris nods, leans in one more time and then pushing him off, “Go or else I’ll need another one,” and Mesut laughs, freely and happily. 

“I heard you’re starting next game,” Sami says later. They’re both in the living room, he’s on the couch reading a sports magazine and Sami’s been playing FIFA 2011 for the last hour, but without any real enthusiasm behind it.

He looks up, eyes just over the top of the glossy pages. Sami hasn’t said anything to him in five days and he wondered if he even remembered what his voice sounded like.

“Yeah, I am,” and it’s quiet again and he goes back to reading, but his eyes dart back and forth between the pages and Sami, who’s now just looking at the controllers and he wants to say something but can’t remember how to start a conversation with his best friend, so he’s filled with guilty relief when his phone goes off and even more so when Cris pulls up ten minutes later.

“How are you guys still not talking? He’s your best friend!” Cris asks as they lay in the middle of the pitch, chests rising and falling rapidly.

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” he answers honestly, fingers pulling at the grass under his hands.

There’s a pause and he can feel Cris roll from his back to his side and he turns his head to the left and looks as Cris props himself up on his shoulder, head resting on his palm. There’s a question waiting to be asked and he knows he’s not going to like it when it is.

“Have you told him?” and that’s the kicker because he wants to. He wants to so badly. He wants to tell Sami that he doesn’t have to worry anymore. That he’s fine and Cris is fine and that they’re fine and that he wants them to be fine. But he knows that telling him about Cris will just make Sami give him that look, the one that looks like maybe it’s happy, but it’s mostly still worried and tired and he doesn’t want to see that look. Not from Sami.

The pause is so long, so heavy that Cris just nods his head, flops back onto his back, stares at the sky.

“I see.”

“It’s not like that,” Mesut tries and Cris laughs and it takes him a moment for him to realize that it’s not a barked, hurt laugh, or a terse laugh or anything other than just a laugh

“I know it’s not about me,” Cris says and it’s his turn to laugh and Cris pokes him in the ribs. “Hey.”

“I thought everything was about you,” he teases and Cris growls, leans over and rolls him over, lands on top.

“Not when I’m with you it’s not,” and Mesut loses his breathe for a moment and lifts his head up, kisses Cris, slow and long and Cris moves his hand from his arm up to his face and slides his fingers up, grips the ends of his hair.

His hands move up under his shirt, feel the muscles lined up over his hips, bunched and moving on either side of his spine, his nails biting into the skin when Cris bites his lip, sucks on it, trails down to where his jaw meets his throat, and bites right at the juncture. 

“You’re going to leave marks,” Cris jokes, breathlessly and he opens his eyes up to the starry sky and looks down at the glowing eyes raised above his chin.

“Do you mind?” and his voice comes out low and breathless and Cris smiles, wicked and devious and he gets his answer, other hand coming up to bring his face back down to his own.

He gets home and it’s late and he figures Sami’s asleep because, fuck, it’s really late and he and Cris just really distracted and he smiles into the darkness.

“So, you’re back,” and he jumps about four feet in the air and Sami’s in the kitchen, in the dark, so he reaches over and flicks the light on, confused and the time on the stove’s clock clearly states that it’s two thirty. 

“What are you doing up?” he asks, kicking off his shoes and placing them on the rack before shuffling into the kitchen, leaning against the door jam, arms crossed.

It’s been weeks since they’ve had any sort of conversation and now Sami’s talked to him twice in a day. He doesn’t know how to feel and the bruises he’s hiding on his neck with his jacket collar are pushing him towards feeling guilty.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Sami answers but Mesut can tell he’s pissed, there’s something else but he doesn’t know if he wants to know, and feels bad about it because, more than anything, Sami’s his friend. There for him til the end, forever and ever, and...

“What’s wrong?” slips out and he tries to grasp them back but they’re out there and the cup stops just before Sami’s mouth and their eyes lock and then Sami just knows. 

He takes a sip and then places the cup in the sink, nods to himself and looks at Mesut with a wry smile on his face, all sad and sarcastic and, maybe, lonely, “So, I guess everything worked out for you, didn’t it?” and Mesut doesn’t know how to answer to that because it’s not in a tone he’s ever associated with Sami before so he just swallows, bites his lip and nods.

“Yeah, I guess it did,” he agrees, but it kills him because Sami’s face breaks, just a little bit, and he moves towards but Sami dodges it.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he says and slips out of the kitchen, and then pops back in, toes the carpet for a moment, looks as if he’s deciding on something, nods to himself before his head swings up, and his voice cracks, “I’m really happy for you,” and then disappears down the hallway. 

They have the day off and Cris has kidnapped him from the house and they’re out. 

(“We’re going where?” he asks as he pulls his shirt on, gets his arm stuck in the head hole with his arm and Cris laughs as he helps straighten him all out.

“What would you do without me?” he asks and Mesut laughs.

“I’d be a lot saner,” he teases and Cris just rolls his eyes and moves into his space and Mesut raises his eyebrows.

“Really? On our way out? Really?” and Cris just grins devilishly and shrugs.

“What can I say?” he whispers, his voice hoarse, “I can’t resist you,” he says as he pushes his hips flush with Mesut’s and smiles when he hears breathe hiss out between clenched teeth.

“You have no shame,” Mesut spits out as Cris drags his hands up his sides, back down again, lifts the corner of his shirt, thumbs teasing the skin just over his boyfriend’s hipbones and leans in, kisses the corner of Mesut’s mouth and...

“So, should we get going?” he asks gaily as he pulls away, winks and Mesut rolls his eyes even as he groans in frustration and grabs his hoodie.

“Where are we even going?” he asks again as they head out and he pushes his shoes onto his feet, kneels down to tie them up.

“We’re just going out,” Cris tells him and Mesut can hear the smile in his voice. “We’re going to go out and walk and just...be,” and Mesut has to admit that that sounds perfect.) 

It’s warm and the sun’s out and Mesut admits he really hasn’t been out and Cris stops in the middle of the street, “Really? Jesus Mesut, you really are slow,” and laughs at the hurt look Mesut drops onto his face. 

“I’ll show you it all,” and Mesut bursts out laughing because it’s so painfully cheesy but he loves it. He really loves it.

So Cris walks him to his favourite record store and Mesut’s face is beautiful and Cris leans in and places a kiss under his ear as he whispers, “I figured you’d love it,” and they stay for hours and Mesut picks through all the music before Cris finally drags him out by his jacket collar and leads him to a grocery store where he picks up bread, cheese, meat, fruit, water, and Mesut looks on questioningly but Cris just shakes his head, smiles.

He leads them to a park and Mesut grins at how absolutely ridiculous it is but can’t deny that he loves it and sits down next to Cris, legs spread out before him and grabs a grape from the bunch.

“I didn’t know you were such a romantic,” Mesut teases and Cris winks.

“You have no idea,” and catches the grape thrown at him, sticks it in his mouth cheekily. 

They eat in silence and watch as kids run back and forth and then, Cris says, “He loves you, you know.” 

He chokes on his grape and shoots a look at Cris and grabs a swig of water before asking, “Who does?” because this can definitely not be Cristiano Ronaldo saying he loves him because....no.

“Sami does,” Cris says, slowly, carefully, as if he’s slow and needs things spelled out for him and maybe he does because...

“Sami?” he asks, clarifies, lets it sink in and asks again, “Sami?” as if there’s someone else that that could possibly mean and Cris nods and he can tell that he’s not looking at him, but over his shoulder and he focuses on the grapes, the stems and they blur together eventually.

“We’re just friends,” he finally explains and Cris laughs and shakes his head.

“You’re so absolutely clueless, it’s adorable,” and normally he would play it off and roll his eyes or wink or move in all close and personal but right now he can’t because...

“Fuck, that’s why he was all pissed off about....fuck,” and Cris is nodding along and he feels like an idiot because if Cris knows who else does and how did he not?

“Mesut,” and his eyes dart up to Cris’s and he knows he can read all the confusion and fear and is grateful he’s there.

“What do I do?” he asks and he knows that, for once, Cris has no answers.

Cris drops him off and smiles, kisses him before he leaves, whispers, “Good luck,” and he smiles because, god. How did he get so lucky?

He doesn’t sleep, not really, instead dozes fitfully and nightmares that Sami’s falling and he tries to grab him but can’t because Cris keeps holding him back and watches as Sami’s forever disappearing, forever falling, but never falling out of view and  he wakes up when he crashes onto the floor, blanket tangled around his waist, shirt soaked through with sweat.

Now that he knows, he can’t push it from his mind and now things are making sense and falling into place and he feels like such an idiot for not seeing it, for being so blind, for needing his boyfriend (he smiles on the word, the word that fits Cris and, he loves it, smiles even wider) to be the one to point it out (and here his smile crashes). 

It’s been two months. Two months since he and Sami have had a proper, full fledged conversation. Since Sami’s balanced himself on his aching muscles or moved his legs and sat down on the couch. Since they’ve tossed the football in the house, both crying, “Ooh!” as it heads towards some appliance or another, but never stopping until it rolls down the stairs and they’re too lazy to go grab it. Two. Months. And it’s not until now that he’s realized that he’s got a Sami sized hole in his heart and he really needs it to be fixed.

Sami’s in the kitchen when he walks in (he’s practiced in the mirror for the last half hour and yet still doesn’t know what he’s going to say) and he doesn’t look up and he wasn’t expecting it to be easy, but fuck, he didn’t figure that it would be this hard. 

He stands there for a minute and then bites the bullet and for the second time plunges in, but this time....this time the chance of drowning seems to be so much higher and what’s at risk is so much more than with Cris. 

“Sami,” and it comes out small and kind of like a question and it’s ridiculous because it’s Sami and he wants this to just be a nightmare and he’ll wake up and he’ll tell Sami about it and they’ll laugh and he’ll cook them eggs but he pinches himself, again, and he’s not waking up.

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