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dfotwTitle: The beauty of the young
Summary: after being dragged to a club by his teammates, Diego finds a familiar stranger to distract him.
Pairing: Diego Forlán/Martín Cáceres
Warnings: Slash.
Wordcount: 2500
Rating: NC-15.
Disclaimers: this isn't true and I don't make any money with it.
A/N: for the wildly talented![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
victor_reno, who gave me the prompt... hope you like it! ^__^
The beauty of the young
The beer tastes bitter on his tongue. The music is too loud. The smell of cigarette smoke is stifling.
Diego can’t remember why he ever thought this was a good idea.
It must have been the false promises at dinner, the low lights of the restaurant, and the laughter of Simao and Godín and Kun as they finished the second bottle of wine. It must have been the silent threat of the empty house that waited at the end of the evening: Zaira is visiting Wanda and Valentino in Buenos Aires and in her absence, Forlán feels that their place in Las Rozas is too big, too empty, too silent.
The complete opposite of the club where they are in now, in fact.
At least, he assumes that the others are still there, somewhere, between the throngs of people in the dark dance floor, because he’s quickly given up on the dancing, grabbed a beer and retreated to a secluded corner, to people-watch. He thinks he can make out Kun’s head (with that horrible new haircut of his) surrounded by three blondes, and maybe that is Simao’s salmon-coloured shirt next to the bar.
Diego lets his gaze slide over the crowd, with the comforting cold weight of the beer bottle in his hand, until something catches his eye. It’s a young man dancing near the edge of a crowd, with a high, looped ponytail that Diego feels is awfully familiar.
He laughs quietly at himself when he realises it reminds him of Martín. The young defender had been so proud when he had arrived to the Uruguay training ground to show his teammates how Mauro Camoranesi ("¡Camoranesi, ché, todo un campeón del mundo!") had taught him to put up his hair for matches: finally he had found the solution to stop the teasing about his long hair! His smile had been blinding when Diego, trying not laugh, had told him that the style was very… samurai-like.
Diego chastises himself for being in a club in Madrid, way past his usual bedtime, surrounded by noisy strangers, smiling like an old fool at the memories of his summer with a guy who’s probably enjoying life in Sevilla, looking at the future and not the past.
But his gaze falls on the guy with the ponytail again, and Diego can’t help but watch him as he sways to the music, his white shirt clinging tightly to his wide shoulders and a pair of fashionably shredded jeans hugging his narrow hips; when he raises his arms above his head, a narrow strip of exposed skin appears at the small of his back, and Forlán feels his mouth go dry.
Diego takes a sip of beer to give himself something to do. He shouldn’t be doing this, looking at that guy like that. He shouldn’t even be in that club at all. But he’s there, and the option of letting his eyes feast on the hypnotic movements of the stranger is, after all, better and more discreet than to imitate Kun’s shameless flirting or Simao’s residence at the bar. He isn’t harming anyone, after all; he’s merely giving himself something to dream about when he goes back to his home and his empty bed.
It isn’t as if he can pick a guy in a bar and take him home, not with the threat of scandal looming near. It isn’t as if the guy in the tight white shirt would go home with him even if Diego could ask; perhaps he doesn’t like footballers, perhaps he’s straight (although Diego doubts it, looking at the way he dances). It isn’t, most importantly, as if Diego could end up even liking the guy, if his ponytail and lean body are all he has that resembles Martín. Because Martín is so much more than that; he is a smile that breaks hearts, a contagious belly laugh, endearingly-styled hair, good football skills, great sense of humour... and Diego could go on and on and on.
When he looks back up from his beer, the guy is gone. Diego tries not to let it bother him, but it does, so after a minute, he puts away his bottle of beer and pushes off from the wall with every intention of leaving the club. He’s had enough of this. Kun isn’t drinking, he promised Benja that much before he left home, so he can drive the other two home.
“Cachavacha!” he hears Godín say as he grabs Forlán’s shoulders and shakes him a little, for good measure. “Where are you going?”
“Home. I’m tired, Flaco,” answers Forlán, trying to smile. “Kun will drive you home, alright? You better make sure he ditches those blondes beforehand, though, we don’t want any rumours to reach Giannina…”
“Don’t leave yet!” says his namesake, loud and slurring the words only a little. “Look what I found!”
And there he is. High ponytail, tight white shirt, shredded jeans, and that smile that makes his heart beat in a way that’d worry the Atleti medical staff.
“Martín?!”
“Hi, Diego.” He looks a bit shy, a bit tipsy, wholly delectable.
“What are you doing here?” When he realises he sounds sterner than he should (older, too), he tries to soften his tone. “Shouldn’t you be in Sevilla?”
“We have the day off tomorrow, so I came here to shoot an ad, and then… well.”
He shrugs. Diego nods. The other Diego, the drunker one, is already drifting towards the bar.
“We also have the day off tomorrow, and these guys insisted on dragging me here… have you seen Kun? He’s somewhere around…”
“Why did they have to drag you here?” asks Martín, disregarding the mention of the Argentinean as unimportant. “Don’t you like it?”
“I’m too old for this,” laughs Diego, although he regrets his honest answer as soon as it leaves his mouth.
“No you’re not!” Martín protests immediately, with an earnestness that warms Diego’s heart. “If you’re bored, it’s because you’re not dancing!”
“I don’t really…” Diego starts to protest, but Martín has grabbed his arm and is dragging him towards the dance floor already.
With a pang of bitterness, Diego pictures the way things will go; Martín will find him a nice, busty partner, encourage him to dance with her, and then dive into the crowd for his own distraction, leaving Diego to feel like a fool. He regrets now, more than ever, agreeing to this outing.
“Come on!” he hears Martín say. “This song is great, isn’t it?”
Diego can’t distinguish this song from other hundred songs that he’s heard in this club before, but he tries to nod as he looks for escape routes.
And then they reach the dance floor and Martín pushes his way into the crowd, and they’re pressed against each other and Martín just gives him that sweet smile of his and starts to dance.
There. Right against Diego. Who can’t back away because there’s people all around him, and who can now feel pressed against him what he had only watched from afar before.
He remembers belatedly that he’s supposed to be dancing too, not just being danced on, so he tries to move, and he bumps against Martín at once because, really, there’s not enough space there for one person, let alone two. The defender just laughs and puts his hands on Diego’s hips (he feels those slim fingers burning through the denim, branding his skin) and steadies him enough that they can rock in unison, the heavy beat thrumming through them, the flashing lights a part of their dance.
It’s not dancing like Diego is used to, and it feels almost indecent, though everyone around them is engaging in the same sort of behaviour. Martín’s right leg is between Diego’s, and he has his head thrown back, neck all exposed with the pulse there beating wildly.
Diego has to bite his lip to resist the temptation to just lean in and… he shouldn’t even be thinking about it. Not here, not now, not with Martín so close to him, offering himself in all his innocence and yet, for the same reason, so untouchable.
“Better?” asks Martín, and Diego nods helplessly, his throat dry and his heart racing.
He barely had one glass of wine at dinner, and the beer he had been drinking was alcohol-free, but Diego finds his brain turning to mush as the crowd pushes them closer and closer, the rhythm makes them move faster and faster, until there is no space between them and his hand is resting (finally!) on the small of Martín’s back, touching that strip of exposed skin that’s been taunting him for what feels like an eternity.
Martín arches into the touch, his gesture making Diego’s hand slip further under his shirt, and his smile is all Diego can see for a moment. Is it too late to pretend nothing is happening, can he blame it on alcohol and loneliness should Martín decide he’s taken the joke too far, how is he going to be able to live with this memory when the harsh light of day dispels the illusion?
Then Martín leans in and Diego’s breath hitches not only at the closeness, but at the sudden reminder that the younger man is almost an inch taller than he is (he finds this so fucking sexy he could just die).
“Diego…” Martín says, his breath hot against Diego’s feverish skin.
The striker wants to play it cool, but then he realises that his hand is splayed on Martín’s back, under his shirt, and that they’re close enough that Martín can feel every inch of his excitement… and he can feel Martín’s against his hip.
“Yes?” he asks in return, his lips barely touching Martín’s ear.
“Do you still want to go home?”
It’s a loaded question, but Diego answers without hesitation.
“Are you coming with me?”
As a response, Martín laughs and hides his face in Diego’s neck.
“Let’s go before Flaco catches up with us…”
Diego drags Martín out of the club by the hand, not caring about who might see them or what conclusion they might draw apart from ‘two intoxicated footballers playing the fool’, and they half-stumble, half-run their way across the parking lot, laughing like children. There’s nothing childish, however, in the way Martín’s arm slides around Diego’s waist as he tries to find his car keys and how his fingers tangle in the belt loops of Diego’s jeans.
“Get in the car, Pelado,” Diego growls, holding onto the last of his common sense not to give a show to whoever might be watching.
The tension in the car thrums through the air until, in the first red light, Martín turns the radio on (how he manages to find a station with dance music immediately is beyond Diego) and then leans in and kisses Diego, full on the mouth, his long fingers framing the striker’s face and tangling on his hair.
It’s lucky that many early-morning training sessions and late-night matches have rendered Diego capable of driving to Las Rozas in his sleep, because he can’t concentrate in anything except the boy in the passenger seat, who fidgets adorably and looks at his driver between his long lashes whenever he can.
Diego leaves the car parked anyhow in front of his house, but hesitates a moment while locking it. He’s not entirely sure of what’s going to happen in his house now that the thrumming atmosphere of the club is being replaced by silence. He’s not even sure of what he wants to happen. Can he take this tonight and tomorrow carry on as if nothing had happened, through matches against Sevilla and international breaks?
“Diego?”
Martín is standing next to the car, biting his lower lip and looking, all of a sudden, a bit lost, as if he’s read Diego’s mind, and seen his doubts, and is now planning his escape in case things go wrong.
This isn’t just about him any longer, Diego realises, and he holds out his hand towards Martín before he’s made the conscious decision to go ahead and pay for the mistake (if that it’s what it is) later. Martín’s expression of relief, and the way he tries to hide it behind his hair before realising he has it tied back, dispel the last of Diego’s doubts, and he leads Martín towards the front door by the hand with a smile of his face.
When the door closes behind them, there’s no more time for doubts or rational thought, because Martín is on him at once, hungry and impatient and so damn young that it’s contagious, and they end up stumbling through the darkened house, bashing shins against furniture and stumbling on the steps until they reach the bedroom, already half-undressed.
Once they’ve fallen on the bed, Diego proceeds to kiss his way up Martín’s lean chest, whispering things into the skin of Martín’s neck that he’d be ashamed to say anywhere else. Then, he bites down on that lush skin to try to restore some equilibrium to his mind, pulls out the ponytail that led to all this and buries his hands in that hair, pulling at it just hard enough to make Martín whimper and trash beneath him…
It’s more than sex happening in the room that night, more than the meeting of two men who’ve wanted each other for far longer than they’ve realised, more than a way to fill Diego’s empty bedroom and calm Martín’s newfound Sevillian loneliness. It’s love, even if they won’t admit it to themselves as they start to fall asleep afterwards, not really snuggling though Martín has a delicious way of finding the best way to make Forlan’s body fit against his own and Diego had no option but to welcome it.
“You’re so comfortable…” murmurs Martín as he buries his nose in the curve of Diego’s neck.
“You think I’m comfortable?” he asks with a laugh. “I’ll remember that next time you’re complaining about the plane pillows…”
Martín lifts his head to peer closely at Diego, who feels horribly found-out. What did he say? Oh god, is Martín going to inform him that he will, under no circumstance, accept a joking mention of this ever again, and that he will not share a plane ride with Diego anymore?
But Martín instead smiles, all shiny teeth and dimples, and buries his head in Diego’s neck again.
“Good,” he says after a long yawn. “You smell better than plane pillows, too…”
“Well, you’re certainly heavier than plane blankets,” mock-complains Diego.
“But I’m warmer too…”
“True… and hairier,” says Diego, batting away the loose strands of Martín’s hair that are tickling his nose.
“Shut up…” Martín would have sounded indignant if it weren’t for the long yawn that swallows the last part of his complaint.
Diego obligingly falls silent, his fingers tracing patterns up and down Martín’s back as they fall asleep. For once, he’s not dreading the morning and the prospect of his alarm waking him up; he’s also looking forwards to the next international break, now that he has his own blanket for the long flight.
The End...
Hope you liked it, feedback is welcomed, adored, and fed expensive chocolate!
Summary: after being dragged to a club by his teammates, Diego finds a familiar stranger to distract him.
Pairing: Diego Forlán/Martín Cáceres
Warnings: Slash.
Wordcount: 2500
Rating: NC-15.
Disclaimers: this isn't true and I don't make any money with it.
A/N: for the wildly talented
victor_reno, who gave me the prompt... hope you like it! ^__^The beauty of the young
The beer tastes bitter on his tongue. The music is too loud. The smell of cigarette smoke is stifling.
Diego can’t remember why he ever thought this was a good idea.
It must have been the false promises at dinner, the low lights of the restaurant, and the laughter of Simao and Godín and Kun as they finished the second bottle of wine. It must have been the silent threat of the empty house that waited at the end of the evening: Zaira is visiting Wanda and Valentino in Buenos Aires and in her absence, Forlán feels that their place in Las Rozas is too big, too empty, too silent.
The complete opposite of the club where they are in now, in fact.
At least, he assumes that the others are still there, somewhere, between the throngs of people in the dark dance floor, because he’s quickly given up on the dancing, grabbed a beer and retreated to a secluded corner, to people-watch. He thinks he can make out Kun’s head (with that horrible new haircut of his) surrounded by three blondes, and maybe that is Simao’s salmon-coloured shirt next to the bar.
Diego lets his gaze slide over the crowd, with the comforting cold weight of the beer bottle in his hand, until something catches his eye. It’s a young man dancing near the edge of a crowd, with a high, looped ponytail that Diego feels is awfully familiar.
He laughs quietly at himself when he realises it reminds him of Martín. The young defender had been so proud when he had arrived to the Uruguay training ground to show his teammates how Mauro Camoranesi ("¡Camoranesi, ché, todo un campeón del mundo!") had taught him to put up his hair for matches: finally he had found the solution to stop the teasing about his long hair! His smile had been blinding when Diego, trying not laugh, had told him that the style was very… samurai-like.
Diego chastises himself for being in a club in Madrid, way past his usual bedtime, surrounded by noisy strangers, smiling like an old fool at the memories of his summer with a guy who’s probably enjoying life in Sevilla, looking at the future and not the past.
But his gaze falls on the guy with the ponytail again, and Diego can’t help but watch him as he sways to the music, his white shirt clinging tightly to his wide shoulders and a pair of fashionably shredded jeans hugging his narrow hips; when he raises his arms above his head, a narrow strip of exposed skin appears at the small of his back, and Forlán feels his mouth go dry.
Diego takes a sip of beer to give himself something to do. He shouldn’t be doing this, looking at that guy like that. He shouldn’t even be in that club at all. But he’s there, and the option of letting his eyes feast on the hypnotic movements of the stranger is, after all, better and more discreet than to imitate Kun’s shameless flirting or Simao’s residence at the bar. He isn’t harming anyone, after all; he’s merely giving himself something to dream about when he goes back to his home and his empty bed.
It isn’t as if he can pick a guy in a bar and take him home, not with the threat of scandal looming near. It isn’t as if the guy in the tight white shirt would go home with him even if Diego could ask; perhaps he doesn’t like footballers, perhaps he’s straight (although Diego doubts it, looking at the way he dances). It isn’t, most importantly, as if Diego could end up even liking the guy, if his ponytail and lean body are all he has that resembles Martín. Because Martín is so much more than that; he is a smile that breaks hearts, a contagious belly laugh, endearingly-styled hair, good football skills, great sense of humour... and Diego could go on and on and on.
When he looks back up from his beer, the guy is gone. Diego tries not to let it bother him, but it does, so after a minute, he puts away his bottle of beer and pushes off from the wall with every intention of leaving the club. He’s had enough of this. Kun isn’t drinking, he promised Benja that much before he left home, so he can drive the other two home.
“Cachavacha!” he hears Godín say as he grabs Forlán’s shoulders and shakes him a little, for good measure. “Where are you going?”
“Home. I’m tired, Flaco,” answers Forlán, trying to smile. “Kun will drive you home, alright? You better make sure he ditches those blondes beforehand, though, we don’t want any rumours to reach Giannina…”
“Don’t leave yet!” says his namesake, loud and slurring the words only a little. “Look what I found!”
And there he is. High ponytail, tight white shirt, shredded jeans, and that smile that makes his heart beat in a way that’d worry the Atleti medical staff.
“Martín?!”
“Hi, Diego.” He looks a bit shy, a bit tipsy, wholly delectable.
“What are you doing here?” When he realises he sounds sterner than he should (older, too), he tries to soften his tone. “Shouldn’t you be in Sevilla?”
“We have the day off tomorrow, so I came here to shoot an ad, and then… well.”
He shrugs. Diego nods. The other Diego, the drunker one, is already drifting towards the bar.
“We also have the day off tomorrow, and these guys insisted on dragging me here… have you seen Kun? He’s somewhere around…”
“Why did they have to drag you here?” asks Martín, disregarding the mention of the Argentinean as unimportant. “Don’t you like it?”
“I’m too old for this,” laughs Diego, although he regrets his honest answer as soon as it leaves his mouth.
“No you’re not!” Martín protests immediately, with an earnestness that warms Diego’s heart. “If you’re bored, it’s because you’re not dancing!”
“I don’t really…” Diego starts to protest, but Martín has grabbed his arm and is dragging him towards the dance floor already.
With a pang of bitterness, Diego pictures the way things will go; Martín will find him a nice, busty partner, encourage him to dance with her, and then dive into the crowd for his own distraction, leaving Diego to feel like a fool. He regrets now, more than ever, agreeing to this outing.
“Come on!” he hears Martín say. “This song is great, isn’t it?”
Diego can’t distinguish this song from other hundred songs that he’s heard in this club before, but he tries to nod as he looks for escape routes.
And then they reach the dance floor and Martín pushes his way into the crowd, and they’re pressed against each other and Martín just gives him that sweet smile of his and starts to dance.
There. Right against Diego. Who can’t back away because there’s people all around him, and who can now feel pressed against him what he had only watched from afar before.
He remembers belatedly that he’s supposed to be dancing too, not just being danced on, so he tries to move, and he bumps against Martín at once because, really, there’s not enough space there for one person, let alone two. The defender just laughs and puts his hands on Diego’s hips (he feels those slim fingers burning through the denim, branding his skin) and steadies him enough that they can rock in unison, the heavy beat thrumming through them, the flashing lights a part of their dance.
It’s not dancing like Diego is used to, and it feels almost indecent, though everyone around them is engaging in the same sort of behaviour. Martín’s right leg is between Diego’s, and he has his head thrown back, neck all exposed with the pulse there beating wildly.
Diego has to bite his lip to resist the temptation to just lean in and… he shouldn’t even be thinking about it. Not here, not now, not with Martín so close to him, offering himself in all his innocence and yet, for the same reason, so untouchable.
“Better?” asks Martín, and Diego nods helplessly, his throat dry and his heart racing.
He barely had one glass of wine at dinner, and the beer he had been drinking was alcohol-free, but Diego finds his brain turning to mush as the crowd pushes them closer and closer, the rhythm makes them move faster and faster, until there is no space between them and his hand is resting (finally!) on the small of Martín’s back, touching that strip of exposed skin that’s been taunting him for what feels like an eternity.
Martín arches into the touch, his gesture making Diego’s hand slip further under his shirt, and his smile is all Diego can see for a moment. Is it too late to pretend nothing is happening, can he blame it on alcohol and loneliness should Martín decide he’s taken the joke too far, how is he going to be able to live with this memory when the harsh light of day dispels the illusion?
Then Martín leans in and Diego’s breath hitches not only at the closeness, but at the sudden reminder that the younger man is almost an inch taller than he is (he finds this so fucking sexy he could just die).
“Diego…” Martín says, his breath hot against Diego’s feverish skin.
The striker wants to play it cool, but then he realises that his hand is splayed on Martín’s back, under his shirt, and that they’re close enough that Martín can feel every inch of his excitement… and he can feel Martín’s against his hip.
“Yes?” he asks in return, his lips barely touching Martín’s ear.
“Do you still want to go home?”
It’s a loaded question, but Diego answers without hesitation.
“Are you coming with me?”
As a response, Martín laughs and hides his face in Diego’s neck.
“Let’s go before Flaco catches up with us…”
Diego drags Martín out of the club by the hand, not caring about who might see them or what conclusion they might draw apart from ‘two intoxicated footballers playing the fool’, and they half-stumble, half-run their way across the parking lot, laughing like children. There’s nothing childish, however, in the way Martín’s arm slides around Diego’s waist as he tries to find his car keys and how his fingers tangle in the belt loops of Diego’s jeans.
“Get in the car, Pelado,” Diego growls, holding onto the last of his common sense not to give a show to whoever might be watching.
The tension in the car thrums through the air until, in the first red light, Martín turns the radio on (how he manages to find a station with dance music immediately is beyond Diego) and then leans in and kisses Diego, full on the mouth, his long fingers framing the striker’s face and tangling on his hair.
It’s lucky that many early-morning training sessions and late-night matches have rendered Diego capable of driving to Las Rozas in his sleep, because he can’t concentrate in anything except the boy in the passenger seat, who fidgets adorably and looks at his driver between his long lashes whenever he can.
Diego leaves the car parked anyhow in front of his house, but hesitates a moment while locking it. He’s not entirely sure of what’s going to happen in his house now that the thrumming atmosphere of the club is being replaced by silence. He’s not even sure of what he wants to happen. Can he take this tonight and tomorrow carry on as if nothing had happened, through matches against Sevilla and international breaks?
“Diego?”
Martín is standing next to the car, biting his lower lip and looking, all of a sudden, a bit lost, as if he’s read Diego’s mind, and seen his doubts, and is now planning his escape in case things go wrong.
This isn’t just about him any longer, Diego realises, and he holds out his hand towards Martín before he’s made the conscious decision to go ahead and pay for the mistake (if that it’s what it is) later. Martín’s expression of relief, and the way he tries to hide it behind his hair before realising he has it tied back, dispel the last of Diego’s doubts, and he leads Martín towards the front door by the hand with a smile of his face.
When the door closes behind them, there’s no more time for doubts or rational thought, because Martín is on him at once, hungry and impatient and so damn young that it’s contagious, and they end up stumbling through the darkened house, bashing shins against furniture and stumbling on the steps until they reach the bedroom, already half-undressed.
Once they’ve fallen on the bed, Diego proceeds to kiss his way up Martín’s lean chest, whispering things into the skin of Martín’s neck that he’d be ashamed to say anywhere else. Then, he bites down on that lush skin to try to restore some equilibrium to his mind, pulls out the ponytail that led to all this and buries his hands in that hair, pulling at it just hard enough to make Martín whimper and trash beneath him…
It’s more than sex happening in the room that night, more than the meeting of two men who’ve wanted each other for far longer than they’ve realised, more than a way to fill Diego’s empty bedroom and calm Martín’s newfound Sevillian loneliness. It’s love, even if they won’t admit it to themselves as they start to fall asleep afterwards, not really snuggling though Martín has a delicious way of finding the best way to make Forlan’s body fit against his own and Diego had no option but to welcome it.
“You’re so comfortable…” murmurs Martín as he buries his nose in the curve of Diego’s neck.
“You think I’m comfortable?” he asks with a laugh. “I’ll remember that next time you’re complaining about the plane pillows…”
Martín lifts his head to peer closely at Diego, who feels horribly found-out. What did he say? Oh god, is Martín going to inform him that he will, under no circumstance, accept a joking mention of this ever again, and that he will not share a plane ride with Diego anymore?
But Martín instead smiles, all shiny teeth and dimples, and buries his head in Diego’s neck again.
“Good,” he says after a long yawn. “You smell better than plane pillows, too…”
“Well, you’re certainly heavier than plane blankets,” mock-complains Diego.
“But I’m warmer too…”
“True… and hairier,” says Diego, batting away the loose strands of Martín’s hair that are tickling his nose.
“Shut up…” Martín would have sounded indignant if it weren’t for the long yawn that swallows the last part of his complaint.
Diego obligingly falls silent, his fingers tracing patterns up and down Martín’s back as they fall asleep. For once, he’s not dreading the morning and the prospect of his alarm waking him up; he’s also looking forwards to the next international break, now that he has his own blanket for the long flight.
The End...
Hope you liked it, feedback is welcomed, adored, and fed expensive chocolate!
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-10-05 01:19 pm (UTC)mmmmmm a good morning already! thank you for writing!
no subject
Date: 2010-10-05 09:18 pm (UTC)Thank you for the comment!
:)