Archive of Our Own

Roque wakes up with a groan, the sun in his eyes, and the painful realisation that he forgot to close his curtains the night before. It doesn't exactly make him feel like he's in for a great day.

Rising to an empty room is no less odd than it has been for the past fortnight. He regrets it now, getting so used to waking with Sebas next to him, curled around Roque's body like he never wants to let go. Getting too comfortable with that being part of his routine makes every morning that Sebas isn't here feel off. And even though he spends suspiciously long in Amaia's room nowadays, it's strange not having Cristian around either.

Roque had begged Javier to let him come with the team to the tournament, a two-week long set of friendlies with some of their biggest rivals, but his coach had balked even before Roque had proposed anything, Javier's eyes unable to leave his hand. Even though he's been out of his cast for weeks now, the pale bruising from where it broke remains, and every time Javier catches sight of it, the man goes pale.

Roque would be lying if he said it's been easy. Missing practice sessions and home matches was bad enough, but at least he could sit at the sidelines and pretend he was just benched for a couple of days. At least he could seek out Sebas afterwards, and let him hold him for a while, sat together in silence in an empty locker room.

But now, Sebas is gone. Sat on a packed bus somewhere around the French border - Sebas' phone's location, which Roque checks obsessively throughout the day, hasn't updated for a while - undoubtedly having far more fun that Roque is. Although it's not like Roque's helping himself. He's spent the past days feeling incredibly bad for himself. The morning of the first day of the competition, Roque had spent hours in bed just staring at the ceiling, until Cristian had sent Amaia to bang on his door like a madwoman after Roque ignored all his calls.

Word of Roque's self-pitying bed rotting had rapidly gotten back to Sebas, and after a rather commiserating call from him, Roque had decided that he should at least try do things with his day. After all, how can he expect to one day be playing again if he doesn't stay in peak form?

And so, despite being away from the team for twelve days now (Roque had decided that crossing them out on a calendar was perhaps a little too sad, although he has certainly kept a mental count), he drags himself out of bed, groaning as he does, to shove on some clothes and head downstairs.

The dining room is packed with athletes preparing for a day just like any other, eating bowls of fruit and muesli and downing protein shakes with a ferocity that would likely make anyone not from the HPC slightly freaked out. Roque makes himself a coffee, grabbing an apple before he scans the hall for Amaia. She's nowhere in sight, though, likely - or more than likely, who is Roque kidding - already in the pool. He settles on a lone armchair by one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, sipping his coffee and trying his hardest to ignore the stares.

It's been like that since the trailer came out, Olympo seemingly deciding to release it anyway despite there being no documentary, perhaps, as Sebas had suggested, as some form of revenge against Roque for playing a role in having the company removed from the HPC. It was... bad. Sebas undoubtedly had it worse - the staring and whispering wherever he went plaguing him nearly all hours of the day - but now that he's gone to live the dream (play rugby all day, eat good food, and then sleep), all attention is seemingly back on Roque, and he's spent much of the past week and a bit experiencing one of his least favourite feelings - vulnerability.

Finishing his meagre breakfast, Roque pulls out his phone to try and distract himself from being so morose, although it doesn't help that he's immediately met by his lock screen photo of Sebas, smiling wide and looking at the ground in the way that Roque loves. He opens his messages, typing something out quickly to Cristian about how he hopes he's having a nice trip.

It's... largely true. It's certainly not a lie, Roque would never actively wish a bad time on his best friend, but a small - or maybe not so small - part of him does wish that some of the team come back claiming it was... boring? A little subpar? Anything to make Roque feel less like he's missing out.

He opens his and Sebas' messages, the last one opened being from Sebas. Sleep well <3, Sebas had sent, using the typed out heart that Roque considers slightly old-school, rather than an emoji like anyone else would use. The message was sent in the early hours of the morning, which only makes the feeling that Roque is missing out on a good time grow and fester within him.

I wish you were here, Roque types and sends before he can think of how it sounds. A little concerning, and a whole lot more pathetic. He goes to delete the message, but before he can, his phone shows that Sebas (who should definitely be practicing right now, rather than texting Roque) has already seen the words. Roque's eyes widen at that, and only widen further when he sees, Sebas is typing. And so before he has to face a response to his pitiful confession, he closes the app and turns his phone off, pocketing it and ignoring the way it buzzes with a reply.

Although it provides him with momentary reprieve, putting his phone away means Roque has to go back to being hyper-aware of the countless sets of eyes on him, and so, with a couple of pointed glares at those who are really staring, Roque tosses away his coffee cup and heads out of the dining room.

The mornings have been getting steadily warmer with the arrival of the new rugby season, but the biting early chill of a waning winter still remains, and when Roque strolls outside, he has to stomp his feet rapidly in a way that he's somewhat glad the rest of the team aren't there to witness to stay warm. The training ground, still largely empty at this hour, does a bit to help calm Roque's frenetic nerves.

But not completely.

The lack of other athletes does help in removing some of his unhappiness, sure, but the lack of rugby players is still glaringly obvious. If it were a regular morning, certainly a better morning, Roque would have been out here even earlier, he and Cristian already warming up, and preparing for whatever evil drills Javier was going to put them through that day.

But it's not a regular morning. It hasn't been for months now.

Roque pulls out his earbuds, putting on a workout playlist to drown out his thoughts and the rest of the world. He launches himself into a series of exercises before he can think more upsetting things about how useless he is now, doing sprints up and down the pitch and running through his forms like the others are there with him. 

He only barely registers the grounds filling up around him, as the runners and other athletes finish up their meals and get ready for the day ahead. Roque's panting by the time he's done, his heavy breathing almost deafening in his ears when he turns his music off. He sprawls out ungracefully on a bench on the sidelines of the running track, slightly glad that the others aren't there to see the way he drops his head into his hands.

Roque isn't an idiot. It's clear that he's gotten worse, no matter how many times that Sebas reassures him it's to be expected. He feels like he's getting weaker by the day, especially on his injured side. Feels like recovery is a distant speck on the horizon, barely visible, let alone reachable.

He rubs his temples. This sucks.

"You look like you're fighting a hangover," comes a voice, cutting through his self-criticism.

He registers the weight of someone's kit bag, then their body sitting beside him on the bench, and the sight of Zoe, collapsing like she's already run a race, next.

"I'm not," Roque replies, his voice muffled as he still covers his face, peaking at Zoe through a gap in his fingers.

"Of course you're not, golden boy," Zoe snorts. "I just said that's how you look."

"Thank you for that."

Zoe grins, leaning back on her elbows and straightening her legs out in front of her in an image of relaxation.

"Shouldn't you be training?" Roque asks as he rubs his face one last time.

Zoe makes a face. "We're doing hurdles."

"I think you might be in the wrong sport."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Zoe asks, a brow raised.

"Well... aren't hurdles a pretty key part of heptathlon?"

"Yeah, yeah," she replies, waving a hand in the air distractedly. "You sound like Jacobo."

"Your coach? You don't think if he's saying that, you should agree?"

"And? Your coach told you to stay here. I doubt you agree with that," Zoe says. The words are said with no bite - just typical Zoe Moral realism - but it stings a little anyway. To be reminded of how Roque isn't the only one who's painfully aware that he's been benched.

"Sebas still isn't back?" Zoe asks after a minute of silence, probably her attempt to change the subject and cheer Roque up. It's the wrong thing to say, if so.

Do you think I'd be here if he were? Roque has half a mind to say. Instead, he settles on a simple, "No."

Zoe sighs sympathetically. "Look, man, I get it."

"Get what?"

Zoe just shoots him a look. "You haven't noticed that Renata's not here either?"

Oh.

"Oh."

"It's killing me, her being away," Zoe continues. "She's-"

"Zoe!" Jacobo yells from across the field. He's stood, tapping his foot impatiently, practically shooting daggers at the girl.

"Calm down, just give me a minute!" Zoe calls back.

Roque snorts.

"What?"

"Nothing," he says, looking down to hide his smirk. "It's just that if I spoke to Javier like that, I think I'd be kicked out."

"Yeah, well," Zoe replies, "Jacobo lets me get away with a lot-"

"Oh right, little miss record breaker-"

"Fuck off."

Roque barks out a laugh.

"Do you know how the tournament's going?" Zoe asks.

Roque thinks back to a few nights ago, when Sebas had spent nearly all of two hours talking Roque's ear off about how, in his words, their team is an embarrassment to Spain. So he has some idea.

"Not great."

Zoe purses her lips. "Is that your way of saying it's been shit?"

"I don't know if I'd go that far-"

"Because they don't have you, huh?" Zoe smirks.

Roque just looks at her knowingly. Despite it making him seem like a massive egomaniac, he knows that it's true. And it's not only his skill - or former skill - that the team are missing; Cristian slightly makes up for that. Roque's sat in on practice enough times to know that what the team needs is to have him leading them again. But only god knows when that'll be. 

"I think if I were there right now, I'd actively be making things worse."

"Not true," Zoe retorts. "I just watched you run, like, twenty laps."

Roque's fairly sure it was closer to five, but he appreciates her words nonetheless. Even if it's hyperbole.

"If you say so," Roque murmurs. "I just don't feel like I'm getting anywhere though. It's like I haven't improved at all since I got injured."

"Fucking Charlie," Zoe hisses.

Roque chuckles hollowly. It's no surprise that Zoe knows all about that, given how often Roque sees she and Sebas huddled together and gossiping, but hearing his name still makes Roque's lip curl with disgust.

"Exactly," Roque bites out. "And with Olympo-"

"Fucking Olympo-"

Roque laughs properly then. "Exactly. They screwed me up even more than Charlie already had, and now I have no idea when I'll be playing again."

"What does your doctor say?"

"The same as everyone else. No excessive strain, get more rest than I think I need. But she always talks about it being months before I'm as I was before."

If it's even possible.

"Well... I know how you feel," Zoe says quietly. "One of my legs got fucked up when I was- when I got into the accident. It took me weeks before I even thought about running again."

Accident? Roque's fairly sure he's never heard about any accident involving Zoe, nor has it ever been mentioned by Sebas.

As if she can read his thoughts, Zoe says, "I haven't really told anyone here about it. This seems like the sort of place where I wouldn't get much sympathy."

Roque nods understandingly. She's certainly right about that.

"I know how annoying it is to hear," Zoe goes on, and Roque finds himself grimacing preemptively, "but you need to give it time."

His grimace descends into a scowl. "If you knew how many times I've heard that-"

"Trust me Roque, I get it," Zoe interjects. "But it's the truth. It's an ugly truth, yes, that you can't train or play properly for a while. But you just have to wait it out."

Roque groans. Everyone in his life is like a broken record, offering the same message over and over. Amaia, with her to-the-point bluntness, all "Roque, just do what the doctors say and keep training", and Cristian, whose kind words seem to fall a little flat when Roque remembers that he's now the team favourite. Even Sebas, with all of his supportive smiles and gentle touches, can't disguise the soul-crushing message that accompanies his promises of "it'll get better with time." 

And yes, they're ultimately all correct - it will get better with time. But Roque has never been a patient person, and his injury has only made him worse.

"Right," Zoe sighs, "I should definitely get back. Jacobo's looking at me like I've betrayed my country."

Roque glances across the field. "Oh, wow, he is."

Zoe hums, standing and stretching her arms above her head with a grunt. "I'll see you later."

Roque nods in response, watching her jog back across the grass to a very pissed-off looking Jacobo, and a laughing Miqui.

Despite not knowing her nearly as well as Sebas - their friendship being something of a mystery to Roque, especially how it came about - Roque wishes he could be more like Zoe. The way she seems to move through life with such ease is enviable. He's well aware that she's been through some shit - being hated by Amaia (which he knows can't be easy), being singled out by the monster that is Hugo Teixeira, and this accident that she mentioned. But Zoe somehow seems to deal with it as if it's nothing, brushing off past events like they're meaningless.

Whilst Roque feels like he's stuck in the past. Part of him, he thinks, will always be trapped in that moment, writhing in pain on the grass whilst clutching his mangled hand. An element of him will always be there, even when he finally gets better.

He slowly begins to wander back towards the centre, his kit bag slung over one shoulder as he pulls out his phone.

I wish I was there too, is the message that greets him. Roque purses his lips so that he doesn't look like an idiot grinning wildly at his phone. And to think that he was convinced he sounded sad and pathetic... well, he still thinks he sounded a little sad, but, he supposes, he and Sebas can be sad and pathetic together.

How has your morning been? Roque types out, attaching a photo that he'd taken when he woke up of the sun rising over the peaks that overshadow the HPC.

It's only a few seconds before Sebas is typing a response, and, for the second time that day, Roque wonders how he's managing to send messages whilst Javier is likely making them train like hell. Cold, Sebas replies. Then, I thought France was supposed to be warm.

Roque snorts. Not at this time of year, haha. You really didn't check the weather before you went?

No, comes Sebas' one-word reply, and Roque can almost picture his frown. I thought it would be like Spain.

Running around in tiny shorts isn't helping, Sebas sends next. The message is accompanied by a photo, seemingly taken just a few seconds ago, a shot looking down at Sebas' legs, bare besides his rugby socks and the thin strip of the lower hem of his shorts at the top of the photo. Roque's pretty sure it was taken with the intention of highlighting the grass Sebas stands on, which is glittering slightly with frost (it really must be cold), but he must admit, Roque can hardly look away from the image of Sebas' toned legs.

He's still staring at his phone when he thuds into someone, hearing a displeased groan before he looks up.

"You want to look where you're going next time?" Diego says loudly, rubbing his forehead.

He's alone, at least - Roque knows how Diego's friends can be, having taken a disliking to him, like seemingly half of the centre, when he posted that selfie. But Diego looks by no means pleased to see him.

Roque glances away. "Sorry."

"Right," Diego says. He glances down at Roque's phone, and as soon as he does, Roque internally curses himself for not turning it off.

Diego's mouth twists into something of a cold smile. "Seriously?"

"What?"

"You walked into me because you're looking at photos of your boyfriend?"

Shit. Sebas will probably kill him if he gets back and finds out that Diego's been telling everyone that Roque Perez walks around campus staring at pictures of Sebas' legs.

Roque sighs. "Just go to-"

"Look, man," Diego says, smirking, "I'm not judging you. Just asking you to be a bit more careful."

"Sure you're not," Roque bites back. "Now can you get out of my way?"

He pushes past Diego, revelling somewhat in the second grunt the man lets out as he does.

"How does it feel to be dropped from the team, captain?" Diego calls after him. "That make your boyfriend proud?"

Roque keeps walking, staring firmly ahead even as a voice within him screams to turn around and punch Diego square in the jaw. But that didn't go so well last time, and Roque has no wish to end up bleeding out from his arm again. Even if what Diego says makes him want to scream.

When he finally makes it to his room, he takes a shower so hot that it makes his skin burn, but Roque imagines that it's washing away every judgmental stare he got on his way back to the dorm, and the pain fades a little.

He collapses on to his bed, grabbing his phone from the nightstand.

I just walked into someone because I was staring at your legs, he sends to Sebas, slightly hoping that none of his teammates are close enough to read it on Sebas' phone.

Idiot, is the reply he receives. Roque snorts. I was showing you the ground.

Right. The ground takes up about a quarter of the photo and the rest is you.

I'm turning my phone off now.

Roque smiles. He knows not to tell Sebas that it was Diego he walked into, nor what he said to him - that would only distract him further from training. Also, if he tells the absolute truth, sometimes when Roque mentions Diego, Sebas reacts with what is undoubtedly jealousy, and Roque prefers to experience that in person.

Maybe he'll tell him, when he gets back. Even though that still feels ages away.

---

Are you still driving?

Sadly. The traffic is really shit.

Roque bites his lip, his brows furrowing. Of course this would happen to him, the day that he's supposed to see Sebas again after two weeks apart and there's fucking traffic.

How was physio? Sebas sends back a few seconds later.

Roque stares at the message for a moment, before replying, It was fine.

He knows that if Sebas were with him, he'd be pestered with questions, Sebas wanting to know what exactly was said, how exactly he can help, what exactly Roque should do. But Sebas isn't with him, so the response he gets is just, That's good.

It still makes me really tired.

If Sebas were here, sat next to him in bed, he'd curl into Roque's side and press a sympathetic kiss to his shoulder. But he isn't here.

I'm sorry.

A few seconds later, another message comes through. Don't stay up, I don't know how long we'll be.

Roque sighs. He knows that Sebas means well - and either way, the message that he should get some sleep is definitely correct - but it doesn't exactly scream "I'm excited to see you."

He closes the app, and shifts onto his side, staring at Cristian's empty bed. The room is completely silent, in a way that he still hasn't adapted to, and Roque impatiently rolls onto his back. As much as he tries, he can't get comfortable, making actually falling asleep totally out of the question. He gazes up at the ceiling, and pictures Sebas, sat on the bus near the border, his head resting on the window as he thinks about getting home.

He's convinced that he drifted off for a good few hours around midnight, but when he next opens his eyes, a glance at the clock reveals it's only been one. Roque sighs. He's too preoccupied by the idea of the team returning, his body thrumming with a sort of a restless, inescapable energy as he waits for someone to walk through the door.

And then, like a benevolent twist of fate, the lock clicks. Roque can tell immediately that it's Sebas purely from how gently the door is pushed open.

"You couldn't sleep?" Sebas says in lieu of a greeting him when he finally steps inside, closing the door quietly behind him.

"No," Roque murmurs as he pushes himself up to sit. "Cristian's not with you?"

"What do you think?" Sebas replies, with a smirk that Roque has missed so much it almost aches. "He took one step off the bus and went running home to Amaia."

"Like how you've come running home to me?" Roque asks, running his eyes over Sebas' form, lit only by his bedside lamp. He's still in his kit, with a rumpled hoodie over the top of his shirt and his bag over one shoulder.

"Exactly like that," Sebas says softly. He crosses the room in only a few strides, until he's stood over Roque's bed.

Sebas drops his bag with a dull, uncaring thud, the mattress dipping as he sits on the edge of Roque's bed. It's almost instinct, the way they move towards one another, faces nearing until their lips are finally touching.

Roque sighs, and every concern, every worry that he's had over the last fortnight, just seems to disappear.

He can feel Sebas smiling against his mouth, and Roque almost protests as Sebas pulls away, only to sigh again when he presses his lips to Roque's cheek.

"I missed you," Sebas murmurs into Roque's skin.

He represses a shiver. "I missed you too."

Roque places his hands on Sebas' waist, his palms fitting as perfectly as they always have, and urges him closer until their legs are touching. Even with his lower half still under the sheets, Roque can feel how warm Sebas is, his thigh pressed up against Roque's.

Sebas is still peppering Roque's face with kisses, and grinning in a way that shows only pure, unadulterated joy. Roque slips a hand under Sebas' hoodie, under his shirt, so he can run his fingers over the soft skin of his waist, and the small sound that Sebas releases is so familiar, Roque wants to jump up and celebrate.

To distract himself, he moves to press his mouth to Sebas' neck, but Roque freezes when he pulls away.

"I need to shower," Sebas says.

Roque blinks. "Seriously?"

"Trust me, Roque," Sebas says, standing up (much to Roque's dismay). "Our last match only ended a few minutes before we got on the bus. I need to shower."

Even though he knows Sebas is right, Roque rolls his eyes. At least he gets to watch Sebas strip, although he takes a rather long time to actually remove each item of clothing, and the way that Sebas glances at Roque every time he takes something off suggests that he knows exactly what he's doing.

"You're taking a really long time for someone who needs to shower immediately."

"Right, right," Sebas says laughingly. He shimmies out of his final piece of clothing, adding his boxers to the pile of laundry on the ground as he traipses towards the bathroom. Roque stares shamelessly at Sebas' ass as he goes, and before he closes the bathroom door, Sebas just turns and smirks at him knowingly.

God, he loves him.

Sebas takes him time, and whilst most of Roque reckons it's simply the wish to wash off any lingering remnants of the tournament, part of him wonders if it's Sebas' attempt to tease him. Either way, it has Roque waiting impatiently like a child being denied some candy. Something about Sebas being here, yet still behind a single door, has Roque fidgeting with an inescapable energy.

He distracts himself by typing out a quick message to Cristian, a simple heads-up that Sebas is over - Cristian knows by now what that may entail, and in a way that Roque greatly appreciates, never really complains - and a question about how he found the matches. Then, rolling his eyes as he still hears the shower running, he moves Sebas' kit bag out of the way. The last time one of them left their boots lying around so haphazardly (likely thrown across the room in a moment of... passion) Sebas had stubbed his toe so badly that he'd thought he'd never walk again, and so loudly that he'd thought he'd woken up the whole HPC.

By the time he's done, Sebas has seemingly finally decided that he's clean enough, because Roque registers the shower shutting off only seconds before the bathroom door is flung open. Roque, leant against his desk, openly stares at Sebas as he emerges, his skin dewy and hair damp, and a towel slung so low on his hips that it should be illegal. He can tell that Sebas is watching as Roque's eyes follow the path of a droplet of water, from his pecs, past his abs, only to stop at the edge of his towel.

"See something you like?" Sebas says, in a teasing tone that Roque knows is reserved only for him, when the pair of them are alone.

Roque tilts his head. "I think you know the answer to that."

Sebas looks away and smiles, turning briefly to the closet to drop his clothes unceremoniously into the laundry basket. Next, he reaches onto a shelf which at some point in the last month turned from Roque's shelf into Sebas' shelf - the thought makes Roque feel all warm inside - and procures a pair of worn sleep shorts and an old t-shirt with faded concert dates running down the back.

Roque, in a way that he knows is classic him, doesn't really see the point of Sebas busying himself with getting dressed again, when both of them know well and good that the night will end with them tangled up together, spent and satiated. But he resists the urge to say something, perfectly happy to watch Sebas wander about, re-familiarising himself with the room. Or perhaps, knowing Sebas, re-familiarising himself with the feeling of being so close to Roque once again. He wouldn't blame him if he were.

"How was the trip?" Roque asks eventually.

Sebas hums. "It was alright. Nice to spend time with the team."

He gets the sense that Sebas is holding back a little, likely to protect Roque's feelings. He doesn't know what to make of it. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Sebas echoes as he toys with with the waistband of his shorts. "We had a couple of nights out which were... fun."

Oh, yes. Roque remembers them well. Or rather, he remembers scrolling through the profiles of his teammates one evening, viewing countless posts of what he was fairly convinced was a karaoke bar, and feeling decidedly left out.

"And the matches?"

Sebas snorts. "Terrible."

"Seriously?"

"Does it really surprise you?" Sebas says, fixing Roque with a look. "Italy and France wiped the floor with us. I think Javier almost had a heart attack. At this rate, we'll be destroyed by Scotland next month."

Roque's mouth twists.

"Lobo thinks we should just forfeit, so we avoid the humiliation of losing our first world cup match."

"Maybe you just need to train more."

"What we need," Sebas says, "is our captain back."

"Yeah," Roque barks out a cold laugh, "well god only knows when that will be."

Sebas shifts on his feet, his expression dancing around until it eventually settles on one of sympathy. He approaches Roque slowly, a little like he expects him to move out of his path, ultimately standing before him, and pressing Roque between the unforgiving edge of his desk, and the familiar warmth of Sebas' hips.

"What about you? What did you spend your time doing?"

Roque raises a brow. "I called you nearly every day, Sebas."

"So? Can't I ask to be told again, now that I'm actually here?"

Roque rolls his eyes, scoffing. "It won't be as interesting as everything you did."

"No? No HPC drama that I missed out on?"

"Like you'd give two shits about gossip."

The corner of Sebas' mouth twitches, but he manages to still maintain an air of sincerity as he says, "Well, you can't have done nothing for the past two weeks."

Roque can't keep the bitterness out of his tone when he replies, "If by nothing you mean moping around pathetically, then yes, I can."

Sebas sighs, and Roque feels immediately like he's said something he shouldn't have.

"I'm sorry," he rushes to say. "I know you've heard it already-"

"No, Roque, I'm not-" Sebas purses his lips. "I don't care. Well, no, I do care, but I mean that I don't mind if you want to talk about it again."

Roque looks down, fiddling absentmindedly with the drawstrings of Sebas' shorts.

"Do you?" Sebas asks, after a drawn-out silence.

Roque has to put some real effort into looking up and meeting Sebas' gaze. "Hm?"

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He lets himself consider the question. It seems a bit unnecessary - of course he wants to talk about it. But Roque knows that he's not exactly optimistic when it comes to his current state. Any conversation would likely devolve into him cursing the length of his recovery, and Sebas, for the thousandth time, having to comfort him.

And it's not that the comforting would be an issue - Sebas himself has reiterated just as many times that it doesn't bother him, and for someone as emotionally repressed as he, he's fairly good at it.

But Roque doesn't particularly feel like such a morbid discussion right now. He has no wish to destroy the atmosphere of reunion, and with every second that passes, as he becomes more and more aware of the press of Sebas' body against his, and the presence of his hands on Sebas' waist, he feels even less like talking about it.

"After," Roque eventually murmurs.

Sebas glances down at where Roque's fingertips are skirting along the edge of his shorts, and smirks. "After?"

Roque hums again in affirmation, keeping contact with Sebas' eyes, which are heavy-lidded in the low light.

"After what?" Sebas says, in the tone that he uses when he wants to goad someone into doing something.

And right now, it's fairly clear what he wants Roque to do, and who is Roque to deny him? He leans in and kisses the smug smile right off of Sebas' face, revelling in the high noise of surprise he lets out. Roque lets his hands wander underneath Sebas' t-shirt, making a quiet sound of approval when Sebas shifts into his touch. Sebas angles his head to make work of kissing his way up Roque's neck, his lips so warm and familiar that Roque almost feels like he might cry... maybe they should talk.

But before he can say anything, Sebas claims his mouth again, seemingly intent on devouring Roque alive, and the low moan that Sebas looses has any thoughts of talking flying out of his head. They stumble backwards in the vague direction of Roque's bed with all the grace of two rugby players navigating a messy room whilst locked in one another's arms, Sebas removing his t-shirt with record speed and taking off Roque's vest next as they go.

Sebas takes advantage of Roque's momentary staring at his chest to spin them, so that when they land on the bed in a tangle of limbs, Sebas is straddling him, and looking down at Roque with a deeply self-satisfied grin.

"You want to be on top?" Roque asks, pushing himself up onto his elbows.

It's the sort of question that would have Sebas of a few months ago clamming up immediately, but, to Roque's delight, Sebas of now just blinks slowly, saying, "We'll see."

They're both half-hard, Roque feeling like he has been since Sebas stepped out of the shower, and when Sebas shifts forward, they release equal groans. There's a bit of awkward shifting around as they fight to rid one another of their remaining clothes, Sebas giggling when Roque's shorts get stuck halfway down his thighs, and murmuring "I've got it, I've got it" as he helps him, Roque shamelessly staring the entire time.

Sebas is desperate, grinding down as soon as they're both bare, and shamelessly moaning into Roque's neck as he works on marking him up. It's possessive in a way that Roque knows Sebas would never admit, but he doesn't need him to. Just the knowledge that Sebas wants to leave his mark on him, wants Roque to walk around the HPC with evidence of their night dotted across his neck, has Roque tangling his good hand haphazardly through Sebas' hair to press his lips into his own throat, as they move against one another like teenagers.

Roque whines when Sebas nips at the skin of his neck, only to sooth it with his tongue (a move that he knows Sebas learned from him), gasping out, "Sebas, fuck, I-"

Sebas shuts him up with a kiss, pulling away to sit back on his heels, a small smile on his face. God, it's as if Sebas has been painted by fucking Botticelli, all harsh angles and soft skin, as he looks down at him with a gaze that conveys far too much for Roque to think about right now.

He can only go on staring as Sebas spits into his palm - that one he didn't learn from Roque, and the first time Sebas did it, Roque had almost died purely from how hot it was - and it feels like almost all his blood rushes south in anticipation as Sebas reaches down between them to wrap his calloused grip, as much as he can, around the both of them.

They're panting like they just ran a marathon, and Sebas can't seem to decide whether he wants to look at Roque's face or Roque's cock as he strokes them both to full hardness, his brown eyes flitting between the two, and his lower lip pulled between his teeth the way he does when he's really focused. Roque roughly flings an arm over his eyes, groaning loudly when he hears Sebas chuckle through his nose. Maybe he'll die here, Roque Perez killed by Sebastian Sendon giving him a reunion handjob. It wouldn't be a terrible way to go.

When Sebas suddenly removes his touch, it takes everything within Roque to suppress a whimper.

"I want, I want-" Roque pants, his thoughts all scattered. He doesn't know what he wants - he's been wanting for the past two weeks, wanting Sebas but knowing he wasn't there, and now that he is here, Roque feels decidedly overwhelmed.

He just wants it all.

At least he's not alone, though, Sebas' eyes a little glazed over, too. "Roque," Sebas breathes out, as if his name is an answer to everything. Maybe, to Sebas, it is.

Fortunately, Sebas saves Roque from the embarrassing fate of asking what now by reaching over to the shelf above Roque's head, searching one-handed for everything they need.

"You want to prep yourself, baby?" Roque asks, the pet name rolling off his tongue before he even really registers what he's saying.

Sebas' breath hitches. He hums, answers, "No. I... I tried that. It wasn't the same."

For the second time in the span of a few minutes, Roque feels like he might die.

"What- you what? When?"

"Roque," Sebas deadpans. Roque can't quite tell if it's Sebas' I'm not answering that voice, or his hurry up and fuck me voice, so to avoid any further confusion, he promptly grabs Sebas by the hips, and flips them in one smooth motion.

Sebas' gaze darkens as Roque looms over him. That - Sebas' love for being held down - has always been a silent fact that they're both well aware of, something Roque has certainly been aware of since that fateful wrestling match. Roque never stops appreciating it, the way that Sebas gasps at being manhandled, the way he writhes underneath him, and now is no different.

Tonight, Sebas actually moans as Roque pushes his legs apart to make space for himself, and as soon as he does, he clamps his lips together as if to pretend it never happens.

Roque meets Sebas' gaze, and can't help the way he snorts.

"Shut up, Roque," Sebas says, fumbling with Roque's good hand to pass over what he got from the shelf. "Shut up, just-"

And Roque would be an idiot if he didn't get the message loud and clear, so in a rushed, desperate move he lubes up his fingers, uncaringly getting some on his sheets (which Sebas will definitely laugh about later), and shifting Sebas' body as he needs to kneel between his spread legs. 

Roque tries not to let his impatience get the better of him, re-familiarising and savouring as he opens Sebas up at a pace that has the man beneath him squirming in place. Sebas reaches up to hook his arms around Roque's neck, pulling him down as Roque stretches him with one finger, then two, three when Sebas pants "more, more, more" into the sweat-damp skin of Roque's throat.

There's no semblance of the version of Sebas that Roque first had in his bed, begging him to be gentle and slow and careful. Sebas, pinned by him and falling apart on his fingers, is all pure and unfiltered need... and Roque would be lying if he said he didn't love it.

Where Roque is trying his best to be patient, to make it soft and drawn-out so that he can finally enjoy himself after two weeks on his own, Sebas seems to care little for patience. He mouths at Roque's neck with a desperation that screams I missed this, his breath hitching every time Roque scissors his fingers the way he likes. When Roque next curls his fingers, Sebas groans, his back arching off the sheets, and Roque smirks.

But, as if he can read his mind - and see all the rather unholy thoughts Roque is having of Sebas coming on his fingers alone - Sebas heaves a hand up to cling at the arm Roque's supporting himself with.

"Roque- fuck, I want, I need-"

And, well, Roque hardly has any wish to deny Sebas right now. Not since they've been apart for so long. He shelves his earlier ideas for later, leaning down to kiss Sebas sloppily before he removes his fingers completely.

Sebas makes a small noise at the loss, as if being left empty physically pains him. As if all he needs is Roque on and in and around him and everywhere. Sebas catches his eye and pouts, which, if he's telling the truth, Roque finds absolutely adorable. But he refrains from saying anything, having learned his lesson last time, when he called Sebas cute, and Sebas had looked like he wanted to die.

Sebas' sadness doesn't last long however, because as soon as Roque stop searching blindly behind him for where he dropped the condom and actually finds it again, holding up the wrapper like it's some prize, Sebas' gaze goes all hungry again.

Sebas snatches it from Roque's hand not unlike the way he grabs the ball in a match, murmuring low and needy, "Give me that."

From there, it all becomes a bit of a blur, the well-known song and dance of Sebas rolling the condom onto Roque - another thing he enjoys doing every time - and the both of them panting, gasping out one another's names as they manoeuvre each other, Sebas scrambling further up the bed and hooking his arms underneath his legs to make space for Roque, which, surprise surprise, makes Roque feel a little close to death again, until Roque's above him again, and positioning his hips just right, and-

Finally, fucking finally, they're together, properly together, connected in a way that goes beyond just physicality, the feeling of sliding into Sebas being so familiar, something Roque missed bone-deep, and it all feels right.

He doesn't realise he's become so sappy that he's frozen until Sebas paws at his lower back, whining, "Move, Roque, move."

And Sebas is so perfect beneath him, so beautiful, holding his legs open and staring up at Roque likes he's the only thing in the universe worth looking at. So, Roque does. The first roll of his hips is heaven, and it only gets better from there.

Sebas, for all of his usual reservedness, isn't one to stay quiet in bed, and now that Roque has spent the last fortnight getting used to silence, Sebas only seems louder. Not that Roque's complaining. It makes him preen a little, feel rather proud of himself that Sebas is so eager to let Roque know how good it feels. So eager to praise Roque and let him know he's doing well... even if Sebas' version of praise is moaning like there's no tomorrow and they have no neighbours.

Roque grabs onto the shelf above the headboard to give himself more leverage, angling his hips as best he can so that Sebas falls further apart with every thrust. His skin tingles as Sebas runs his hands all over him, like he's trying to commit every part of Roque to memory, and Roque's aware that his volume, too, is only increasing with every brush of Sebas' fingertips, every clench of Sebas' body around him.

A feeling of heady giddiness engulfs him when he shifts Sebas' body and Sebas just goes, letting Roque bring one of his legs up to rest on his shoulder, and pushing the other one down into the mattress as far as Sebas' flexibility will allow.

Sebas' brow furrows momentarily at the change, but his confused expression lasts only as long as it takes Roque to draw his hips back and thrust back in, when the change in angle has Sebas keening, and arching almost off the bed as his hands scrabble at the sheets.

Roque allows himself to get lost, staring through the haziness that's obscuring his heavy-lidded gaze at Sebas. Sebas, who Roque thinks is the most beautiful thing that he's ever seen, as he moans hoarsely into the stuffy air of Roque's bedroom and arches his back to somehow be even closer to him. 

"Roque," Sebas pants out like a prayer, "Roque, Roque-"

And it's not like the object of Sebas' desire is doing much better, barely managing to keep a hold on himself but committed to the task of getting Sebas to come first, continuing to roll his hips so that he brushes Sebas' prostate on every thrust, and groaning a messy amalgamation of, "God, fuck, Sebas" as he does. 

"Please," Sebas whines, as if he even needs to ask, as if Roque wouldn't keep doing this forever with the promise that it would bring Sebas pleasure. "Please."

Roque moves one of Sebas' legs, pushes the other one further into the bed to get impossibly deeper, leans down to lick a broad strike up Sebas' sweat-soaked neck and kiss along his jaw, all as the man beneath him chants his name over and over like it's the only word he can remember.

Sebas comes untouched, with a broken sob that would have Roque concerned if it weren't for the look of ecstasy on his sculpted face, his brow furrowed and a flush high on his cheeks. Roque himself is close to follow, the rhythmic clenching of Sebas' body around him causing him to release a rough groan and collapse forward as he comes, only stopping himself at the last moment before he falls atop a still-shaking Sebas. 

"Jesus," is all Roque manages as he pulls out slowly and then hastily gets rid of the condom, flopping down beside Sebas once he's done. 

"That's what I was going to say," Sebas says. His voice is strained, undoubtedly from moaning like he was being fucked six ways to Sunday, and it makes Roque feel a little smug inside. 

Sebas begins to laugh then, small giggles that yet again call to mind the word adorable. 

"What?" Roque asks, nudging Sebas with his shoulder as he turns his head to look at him. "What is it?"

"I think we might get a noise complaint."

"You don't say," Roque murmurs sarcastically, suppressing his grin.  

"I don't know," Sebas says. "We weren't that-"

"We? Are you serious? Sebas, I think we both know who that complaint will be directed at."

He laughs openly at that, loud and joy-filled, and Roque wishes he could bottle up the sound. Sebas' stomach is still sticky, shiny with his own spend, and Roque is overcome with the inexplicable urge to lick it up. In a few minutes, he tells himself, once he's recovered slightly; Sebas, too, even though Roque knows full well that he's the more insatiable of the two of them, always eager to go again. 

For now though, Roque is content to listen to Sebas ramble about hypothetical (but maybe soon-to-be-not-hypothetical) noise complaints, as he stares at his boyfriend's grin. He's perfectly happy as he is. 

---

The sound of his alarm going off is no less horrific as it is any other morning, but Roque's typical early-morning anguish is eased a little by a familiar huffing sigh beside him. 

What's even more familiar is Sebas' raspy, "How early is it?" 

"Early enough to be tormented by Javier," Roque replies. 

Sebas groans. "I've spent the last two weeks being tormented by Javier. You'd think he could give us a morning off."

Roque hums as he rolls onto his side to be met by the sight of a very sleepy Sebas. "Not if what you said about getting your asses handed to you by the competition was true."

Sebas grimaces. "This is going to be hell."

"Probably," Roque agrees as he heaves himself out of bed with a grunt. But at least you're back, is what he wants to say, but he's a little aware of getting too sappy this early in the morning. 

Despite Roque's several alarms, and how they tell one another that Javier won't handle tardiness well, they barely make it out in time. Roque gets sidetracked by how Sebas winces when he first gets up, which Sebas seems intent on blaming Roque for despite Roque having a distinct memory of the other clambering atop him and insisting on going again in the early hours last night. Sebas, as a form of what seems like payback, finds great amusement in pointing out the several large love bites he's left on Roque's neck, and Roque gets so distracted that they only just make it to practice. 

"Morning," Cristian murmurs with a smirk when they finally rush out onto the pitch. "You have fun?"

"Before you say anything," Roque says, "remember that you can't talk."

"Look who's finally decided to join us," Javier barks out, appearing from god-knows-where to tell them off. "Sebas, give me five laps."

Sebas looks stricken. "Coach-"

"Talk back and it's six," Javier warns. 

Roque snorts at the look of horror on Sebas' face, looking down to hide his smile when Sebas glares at him. 

"And you?" Javier continues as he moves on to Cristian. "This isn't time for a friendly catch-up. What are you still standing here for?"

"Sorry," Cristian says quietly as he jogs off, shooting a small smile back in Roque's direction. 

Javier runs a hand over his face long-sufferingly before he turns to Roque. For the first time in months, Javier's eyes don't go immediately to Roque's hand. 

"Roque. How are you?"

"I'm alright. How was the tournament?"

Javier looks like someone has reminded him of a deeply traumatic memory. "How close are you to playing again?"

It's Roque's turn to look unhappy as he replies, "I haven't had a miraculous recovery, if that's what you're asking. I still won't be able to play in the World Cup."

"Shit," Javier says. Roque is inclined to agree.

"Look, Roque, I think you have two options," Javier goes on. "I know you've been training, and please, whatever you choose, don't stop doing that. But I could... use some help."

Roque's brow furrows in confusion. "So?"

"So, you either keep up what you've been doing the past few months, or you join me as a temporary coach."

"A... a coach?" Roque repeats, a brow raised. 

"It's not too much of a step up from captain."

"I don't think I'm qualified-"

"Roque," Javier cuts in, his hands moving to grasp Roque's arms. "This team is falling apart without you. Maybe you're happy with what you've been doing, but they could really do with some more guidance. From someone who isn't me."

"Okay," Roque says placatingly, largely in the hopes that Javier stops looking at him like he's the second coming of the messiah. "Okay. I'll... think about it."

"Good," Javier sighs, dropping his arms. "That's good."

Roque isn't lying, though - he certainly will think about it. Although he and Javier have definitely had their disagreements in the past, Roque trusts his judgement when it comes to the team. And if he says that it would be useful, then... perhaps it is a good idea. It could be fun, bossing the team around. God knows he's missed that, not being able to properly act as captain whilst benched. Sebas and Cristian would undoubtedly find it absolutely hilarious, but Roque thinks he could handle that if he had the power to tell them to drop and give him twenty. 

"You're not exempt from practice while you think about it, poster boy," Javier interrupts Roque's train of thoughts, the man seemingly returning to his usual mood. "What are you doing, admiring the mountains?"

Roque jogs dutifully towards where the others are gathered warming up, grinning from ear to ear as the team greet him. 

"Right, gentlemen," Javier says. "I will not put it lightly. If I ever see playing like that from you again, I will drown myself in the fucking synchro pool and blame it on all of you. Do I make myself clear?"

Several people snort, and it only makes Javier look more serious. Some things never change, it seems, Javier's constant state of pissed off included. 

And even though Roque has had a terrible two weeks, even though he knows that tomorrow he may be back at square one, and that he might need to curl up in bed next to Sebas and pretend that the rest of the world doesn't exits, it's alright. Because he's with his team again, and right now, everything seems fine.