Gabriel Bautista (xochipilli) wrote in paxemerituslog, @ 2018-08-19 07:39:00 |
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Entry tags: | freyr, xochipilli |
heart's racing
Who: Gabe & Rafe.
What: Two lovers square off for their respective teams.
Where: Gabe and Rafe's apartment.
When: During the 2018 World Cup.
Upon entering the Atala-Bautista apartment, one might've thought a cartoon character threw up in it. Banners and streamers of competing colors covered the walls, bright green and yellow racing with red, white and green. Emblems dotted corners, and a full spread of food was set up on the kitchen table that grew forth from the kitchen itself, centered between that room and the living room. Gabe was in the kitchen, dressed in a Mexican national football team jersey, specifically #13. He was pulling beers out of the kitchen to add to the meal he'd had catered (he simply didn't have time to throw food together, trying to catch up with his writing schedule as he was), and called out as he turned back toward the large, 50-inch screen that hung on the wall.
"Anjo, they're starting to take the pitch," he called out, his eyes glancing toward the bedroom. Rafe had only ducked out moments before, but the electricity in the room was palpable—they were both excited that their countries had advanced, especially after Mexico's amazing and unexpected win against Germany. It had hit Gabe early on that this meant they'd possibly be playing Rafe's home country, Brazil, but now the rivalry was real after South Korea had sent Germany packing, saving Mexico from an early elimination. Gabe was overjoyed, and a playful competitive streak had broken out between him and his boyfriend.
"You gonna come out and cheer for your team, babe, or are we gonna have to do this in separate rooms?" He grinned, uncapping both beers.
"That might not be such a bad idea," Rafe teased. He shuffled barefoot and bare-chested into the kitchen. A pair of vibrant green board shorts hung low on his hips, the Brazilian flag emblazoned across his right thigh. He sidled close to Gabe and plucked a beer from his hands, leaning up to kiss his stubbled face. Gabe leaned into the touch, his arm moving around Rafe's waist. "You look good," Rafe said, nuzzling against Gabe's cheek. "Even in that ugly jersey."
"Hey!" Gabe replied, surprise and amusement coloring his face. He shook his head, pulling the drawer open to deposit the bottle opener back to where it had come from.
Rafael laughed as he pulled away, his fingers trailing down his partner's jewel-toned shirt. The beer bottled dangled from one hand and he moved into the living room, his eyes now fixed on the screen. He took a seat on the sofa, nestled back against the armrest, and drew one leg up under him.
"Predictions?" he asked. Gabe came up behind the couch, beer in one hand. He leaned over where Rafe was sitting, eyes on the screen as well.
"Mexico, 3 to 0," he replied, ending the statement with a punctuated kiss to the back of Rafe's head. He went to the table spread and fixed himself a plate. "You want carnitas or barbacoa?"
"Barbacoa, por favor," Rafe answered. "And three nothing? Not with Becker in net. Wishful thinking, my love."
He turned his head to watch Gabe prepare their plates, quite enjoying the view in spite of their traded jibes. He rested an elbow atop the couch's armrest, ignoring the television and coin toss in favor of his partner.
"Are we betting?" he asked, a teasing lilt in his tone. "I'm sure we could come up with some fun stakes, if we wanted. Maybe a little consolation prize for whichever of us loses…"
Gabe laughed, carrying a plate over to Rafe. He handed it over the couch, shrugging. Rafe took it gladly, making sure their fingers brushed as he did.
"Sure, loser cleans up and...head for a week for the winner?" He offered, one brow arched as he moved his plate from one hand to the other, freeing a hand to reach for his beer. He moved around the long side of the couch, coming to sit next to and somewhat on top of Rafe, their hips firmly touching. The plate and his beer went on the coffee table in front of them.
Laughing, Rafe said, "That's a win for both parties. I like it."
"And don't count Ochoa out just yet; he played fantastically against the Germans, so I think Brazil should be stepping very, very lightly," he replied, leaning in with each word at the end of his statement. He put an arm around Rafe's shoulders, pulling him close to press a kiss to his temple before turning back to reach for his beer. Rafael settled in close, ignoring his food for a moment in favor of his partner.
"He's very good," Rafe admitted, "though he could use a haircut. And you still have Neymar to contend with."
"Ooo," Gabe said, chuckling as he brought his beer to his lips. "You sure you wanna put money on his theatrics? Futbol isn't all drama, anjo. Unless you think he's gonna substitute himself for the ball and roll down the field into the net?" Rafael laughed, shoving an elbow perhaps a bit hard into Gabe's ribs. He squeezed Rafe's side, grinning as he watched Mexico set up to kick the ball off.They started off strong, immediately tearing down the left side of the field.
"Already driving at it hard," he commented with approval.
"Good," Rafe countered, hopeful still. "Let them tire themselves out."
No sooner had he said it than he shot up in his seat, leaning forward as the Brazilian keeper made a desperate punch of a save. Rafe muttered a quiet curse under his breath, then busied himself with his food instead of the already-stressful game. He took a few bites of his meal, his eyes tracking the screen in spite of his supposed disinterest.
"You're lucky I love you," Rafael teased, "or I'd have invited Fey over to help drown out your rude comments."
"Ouch!" Gabe commented, his arm leaving the line of the couch behind where Rafe had been relaxing to instead press a hand to his chest, over his heart. He shot Rafe a playful wounded look, but it wasn't long before he was easily grinning again. That expression quickly winnowed as Brazil took back the ball and immediately drove it down the field toward Mexico's goal, the dramatic Neymar taking a shot at the keeper whose jersey number Gabe was wearing. He fist-pumped as Ochoa grabbed the flying ball from the air and returned it to his teammates. The crowd immediately began chanting "ole!," and he took up the chant even as Mexico fumbled the ball in Brazil's defensive zone and were forced backward.
"Early yet," he commented, taking another pull from his beer and reaching for his own plate.
"Still," Rafael said. "I told you Neymar is more than just dramatics." Gabe rolled his eyes, but kept to his meal.
Rafe tucked into his food, following the game somewhat less closely than his partner's excited motions. It did his heart good to see Gabe like this, enrapt in something other than work, embracing a side of himself even Rafe rarely got to see. It made him feel warm, put a smile on his face even as the game continued to be a source of not altogether unpleasant stress. He found himself humming along with the chants, even those coming from the green-shirted fans.
Gabe glanced toward Rafe, smirking wryly as he sucked sauce off of a thumb. "Coming over to the dark side, anjo?" He teased, putting his plate down to instead settle close again to his partner. He certainly felt at ease—one arm around Rafe's bare waist, his gaze returned to the TV to watch some friendly contest between the two teams. At least until the Brazilian goalkeeper jumped out and over Hernandez, Mexico's forward, in an attempt to grab the ball.
"Mierda! Can't they just play futbol without being absolutely stupid?" One hand jutted toward the TV as Gabe both shook his head and gritted his teeth.
"Sometimes I think that's part of the game," Rafael teased. "Don't get so aggressive, amorcito. You'll scare Mister Fishy." Gabe rolled his eyes even as he smiled, but his fingers stroked Rafe's side affectionately.
As the green-shirted team closed in on Brazil, harrying them at every turn, Rafe found himself inching closer and closer to the edge of the sofa, his nerves slowly fraying in an oddly enjoyable way. He looked from the television to Gabe, quirking one brow in a rakish little expression. "You have to admit," he said. "Becker is enjoyable to watch."
Gabe had been watching the side of Rafe's face as emotions played out over the side of it. He leaned forward, wrapping his arms and hands around his partner's waist to pull him back against the couch.
"I'll tell you what's enjoyable to watch," he growled softly, feeling more at ease than he had in a long, long time. On the screen in front of them, Mexico continued to apply pressure to Brazil's side, taking a few well-earned shots, but were unable to sink any of them. Gabe pressed a kiss to Rafe's jaw, his arms wrapped tight around the other man. "I'm glad we get to do this. I hope you won't be too mad when El Tri kicks Seleção out of the cup." He nipped the lobe of Rafe's ear. Rafael sucked in a breath.
"Mm… not going to happen," Rafael teased. He tipped his head toward Gabe's mouth, sidling closer to encourage him more. "I can't wait to see who wins," he mused, motivated by something completely unrelated to the match itself. He popped the last bite of the food into his mouth, then leaned up just enough to set the plate on the table before them. Then he settled back into Gabriel's embrace, nuzzling into the tight circle of his arms. He was briefly distracted as Ochoa made an impressive save, setting Rafe's nerves jangling again.
Gabe grinned widely at the sight, his face pressed to the side of Rafe's head. Over and over, he counted Neymar taking the shots—clearly the man was more than just the measure of his dramatics. But Mexico was quick to take repossession of the ball, only for it to not last; Gabe's grip around Rafe's waist tightened with no small amount of stress as the ball ping-ponged around inside of Mexico's defense, set off by a free kick—eventually it ended in a too-high shot at the goal itself, sailing off into the crowd. Gabe released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"Looks like Brazil is finally starting to measure up a little, hm?" One hand massaged its way inside of Rafe's pantline, the warm flesh soft and inviting.
"I won't say I'm upset," Rafael said, chuckling. "Between national pride and your reactions, it's difficult not to enjoy this."
In truth it was impossible not to enjoy the entire spectacle of the match. In between riotous bouts of action the cameras panned to the crowd, full of bright colors, bold costumes, and beautiful fans. Rafe caught himself pointing out some of them to Gabriel now and again, drawn to the vibrant headdresses and face paint the spectators wore. And all the while he let his partner's hand move further up his leg, bunching the slick cloth of his board shorts up around his thigh.
Brazil continued to press, gaining fouls and corners as they fought for dominance. But Ochoa was in excellent form and his defenders served him well, leaving both watchers nervously staring at the screen as the half approached.
Gabe sucked in another breath as Brazil earned themselves yet another corner, only to be blocked once more—but it was still closer than he would have liked the team in yellow to gain. He kept his thoughts to himself, turning his gaze toward Rafe all but seated in his lap, his gaze fixed on the screen the same as Rafe's. A whistle blew, and halftime was called.
"Still feeling good about our bet?" He teased, his hands coming away from Rafe's pants toward his nude middle, more than pleased to fill those empty palms with fitsfuls of brown skin. He pressed a kiss to Rafe's temple. "If Mexico keeps this up, I feel like the game will definitely turn in our favor."
"Mm… don't count Seleção out just yet, gatinho. I wouldn't want to be a fly on the wall of either locker room right now."
Rafael turned in his partner's hands, drawing his legs up onto the couch. Quickly they circled Gabe's waist, straddling him, Rafe firmly planted in his lover's lap. "I feel very good about our bet," he teased. He leaned into a kiss, his hands moving to either side of Gabe's face. The television droned on behind them, commentators picking apart every play, and Rafael heard none of it. Gabe was likewise less than attentive; his hands were on Rafe's hips, drawing his boyfriend as close as possible during their little interlude.
Even when Rafe broke the kiss he ignored the screen behind them, instead sliding back down to sit alongside Gabe and taking up his plate of now-cold food. He tucked into it in spite of its chill; it seemed somehow more delicious with Gabe's taste still on his lips. He smiled at the thought, and raised a hand to hide his mouth as he finished a bite of food.
"You know," he teased, "if they take the Cup, I'm going to make you wear a Neymar kit out to dinner one night."
"Hey, hey..." Gabe started, reaching out to snatch a small bite off of Rafe's plate. "Let's focus on one thing at a time, shall we?" Just as he was bringing the bite to his lips, his heart sank into his stomach as his eyes turned toward the screen.
"Gooooaaallll!" The announcer screamed as the very man Rafe had been teasing Gabe with was piled on by his teammates, having finally sunk the ball into El Tri's goal. Gabe shook his head, forcing himself to eat what he'd taken from Rafe's plate; but his hand around Rafe's waist tightened a little, showing his stress.
"Well, good for him," he finally managed. "Pulling his weight after all those theatrics. Guess he's more than a show pony after all."
"Eu avisei," Rafael mumbled, hiding his grinning mouth behind the last bite of his food. He leaned into Gabe, nudging him with his shoulder. But once the food was gone there was no way for him to hide his elation; he leaned forward, to the very edge of the sofa, suddenly watching the match with renewed interest. The energy had only intensified, the players in green intent upon keeping their hopes alive.
Rafael glanced to Gabe, feeling a sudden pang of guilt at the joy he felt while his partner mourned. His voice softened. "Ah… do you want more food, amor? Something to drink?"
Gabe's suddenly intense gaze was pulled away from the TV, seemingly surprised by Rafe's questions—not that he'd ask such things, because he knew his anjo cared deeply, but simply woken out of a trance that seemed to think if he willed it hard enough, El Tri might make a comeback. He shook his head, one hand reaching out to slide up Rafe's back.
"No," he replied, trying a small smile. "I'm just glad we catered instead of cooked, because that means less dishes to wash," Gabe joked. He glanced back to the television, where El Tri had taken back the ball for a corner kick. Then he looked back to Rafe. "It's just a game, anjo," he finished with, though it was clear he didn't fully believe his own words.
Rafael hummed, a small sound that somehow made quite clear his disbelief. His gaze darted from his partner to the television and back, trying desperately to balance his happiness over the game with his distaste for seeing Gabriel so upset. Sports were not typically Rafael's wheelhouse, least of all team sports. But this particular game felt like something so much larger, a pleasant commingling of pride in one's country and heritage, that Rafe could not help but feel more invested than he otherwise would. It was clear his partner felt the same. But he only patted Gabe's thigh and nodded understanding, well aware Gabe said what he did more to comfort him than to be truthful.
"I'll get another drink anyway," he said. He rose from the couch, bending down to kiss Gabe's forehead before drifting away. He returned, a fresh beer in each hand, and passed one to Gabe. His eyes widened as Ochoa made another impressive save, shutting Paulinho down.
"He's still in fine form," Rafe admitted, trying to coax Gabe out of his shell.
Gabe nodded, gratefully accepting the drink; he passed it to his other hand, his now free one wrapping somewhat damp fingers around Rafe's wrist to tug him down to the couch.
"Gracias, anjo," he said, feeling a little lighter. "And he is, he blocked 14 on target strikes from Germany. He'll pull it together for here." His arm went along the back of the couch, fingers just brushing Rafe's other shoulder. Meanwhile, on screen, a Brazilian player was dealt a yellow card; Gabe smartly bit his tongue, keeping any passive-aggressive comments to himself. Directly after that, El Tri drove the ball up to Seleção's goal posts, only for his hopes to be doused as the Brazilian keeper snatched the ball from the air.
What little joviality was put in him by Rafe's charitable move was eroded, and he sipped his beer, quietly growing a little more sullen as he watched the TV with rapt attention. Rafael's attention was firmly on Becker for the moment, though perhaps for not the same reasons as his partner. But soon he was engrossed in the game once more, as Mexico looked increasingly tired and Brazil kept steady pressure on. Rafael lapsed into silence, nursing his beer and picking at the food left on their plates. His perch at the edge of the couch cushions betrayed his real interest.
Somewhere Gabe's phone vibrated, insistent. It took a few moments before he realized it was his mobile after all, and he rose from the couch to look; a welcome distraction from the slowly burning massacre on the TV. Leira's name and smiling image were burned onto the screen. He opened it to reveal a text.
w t ffffffffffffffffffffff what is happening
Rafe leaned forward as Willian and Neymar advanced on El Tri's goal, but his excitement proved unfounded. He sighed, and leaned back, silently sipping his beer.
Gabe turned back around, tapping out a response with intermittent glances toward the TV. Brazil had the ball once more, but Mexico took it back to drive toward the opposing goal— only to be denied once more. His mouth pressed into a thin line.
tired probably; where are you watching?
As he looked up from his mobile screen, his brow furrowed to see Neymar rolling around on the ground. Gabe rejoined Rafe on the couch.
"What happened?"
Rafael very nearly answered "nothing," but pride alone kept him from doing so. But he did shake his head, unable to completely hide his disappointment. "Layun stepped on his ankle," he said. And that was all; it was clear by his silence he disapproved of Neymar's antics, even if they had in any part been deserved. The ensuing pause as medics attended to the downed forward was awkward and seemed to last an eternity. Rafe tried to lessen its strain by sidling closer to Gabe; his partner accepted the comfort willingly, stretching another arm around Rafe's shoulders.
"How is Leira?" he asked, his shoulder pressed to his partner's. At Rafe's question, Gabe glanced down at his phone.
with the girls at some bar, her text replied. should've come to your place so we could yell about this together
"She's out having fun with some friends," he said, typing out a non-response to his sister thoughtlessly before clicking the phone shut and tossing it onto the cushion beside him. "Watching the game, too; just as unhappy as me," he finished, giving Rafe a sidelong look, though the sour expression he wore gave way as he gazed on his boyfriend's familiar face. On the screen in front of them, the game continued to play out--Mexico desperately trying to close the gap in the score while Brazil did their best to fend them off.
"You think we should've gone out and watched the game somewhere?" Gabe asked, curious about Rafe's thoughts. He would've been surrounded by many more Brazilian supporters, instead of the damp personality Gabe had slipped into regarding his team's conduct.
"Of course not," Rafe answered. His hand rose, fingers trailing along Gabe's scratchy jawline. He scritched at the thick, dark hair of his beard, drawing him closer. He pressed a soft, smiling kiss to Gabriel's cheek. "There's nowhere I would rather be, amorcito. I'm sorry this isn't going to your liking, but I am enjoying it. The food is good… the company is good…" His right hand fell to Gabe's lap, trailing softly over warm skin and the thick cloth above it.
"Look at it this way: El Tri can be proud of this match, whatever happens. Don't you think?" He leaned further in, nuzzling into Gabe's throat to hide his growing smile. "And hey, if they lose, I'll make sure I make that week of head enjoyable for you, too."
Gabe grinned, laughing softly at Rafe's affectionate touch.
"Oh you don't have to worry about that, mi amor," he replied, the arm around Rafe's shoulders tightening. He turned his face enough towards Rafe's that he could snuggle his profile against his lover's. "I love sucking you off, or having you anywhere that close..." His mouth sought out the other man's, more than happy to be distracted at the moment. On screen, Mexico played a long cross-field diagonal only to botch another goal attempt, the ball migrating its way back to their half of the field. He missed the back and forth, but it was impossible to dismiss the celebration from both the crowd and the announcer as Brazil scored once more.
"Brazil doubles their lead, courtesy of a substitute," the bodiless voice announced, the camera zooming in on Firmino making a heart-shape with his hands as his teammates pummeled him with exuberant joy. Gabe didn't even look up, instead just sighing and pressing his face into Rafe's neck.
"So should I just take your pants off now?" He joked, leaning hard into the other man.
"I won't stop you," Rafael laughed. Above Gabe's downturned head he watched the television, but his attention was thoroughly divided now. He was glad of the change in Gabe's tone, but worried it wasn't real; he looked down again, intent upon cheering up his lover if at all he could manage it. He kissed the top of Gabe's head. "But it isn't over until the last whistle blows, we both know that." Gabe nodded as he pulled back enough to slouch against Rafe's shoulder, forcing himself to watch the game to its very end.
But with only a few minutes left the wind seemed to have been taken from Mexico's sails. They continued to fight, but even the added time ticked away with a quickness that precluded any comeback. Brazil remained in good form, much to Rafe's happiness. He was tense with excitement, enough to overcome the guilt he felt over feeling so in Gabe's presence. Rather than watch the final minutes of the game he turned his focus to Gabriel, capturing his mouth with his own, kissing him deeply.
Even with his team sliding toward defeat, Gabe had been concentrating enough on the game to be taken off-guard by Rafe's sudden liplock. He was, however, all too happy to be so distracted; a hand came up to the side of Rafe's face, his mouth eagerly curving toward his lover's. He pulled Rafe toward himself, bringing the other man down atop him on the couch.
"Trying to soften the blow?" He grinned, staring up into Rafe's familiar brown eyes.
"Do you mind if I am?" The whistle blew, ending the match. Rafe never looked up. His hands were on Gabe's biceps, clasping him tight, holding his focus. As Neymar, Firmino, and the rest of their squad celebrated on the field, Rafe settled in close against Gabe's chest, kissing him more deeply than before. By the time the talking heads appeared on screen, commenting on every loose play and dramatic dive, Rafe had covered Gabe's body with his own, stirring them both with the intensity of his distraction.
Which Gabe accepted happily and wholeheartedly, hands rising to thread fingers through Rafe's hair in order to pull him closer. The other danced down his partner's naked back, the background noise of the game doing nothing except dulling into white noise as he tasted his love.