#fc yaoi

<<I love everything you do, when you call me fucking dumb for the stupid shit I do. Wanna ride my bike with you, fully undressed, no training wheels left for you. I'll pull them off for you.>>>

~~

Joan Garcia is a pathetic man.

He wishes he could find an even worse word to call himself, but he’s on the verge of throwing up all the alcohol he drank, as his hands itch, begging him to grab something, to pull at someone, while his skin burns, head pounding loudly in this strange, newly unlocked state. So excuse the lack of vocabulary, and the dramatic note in all of this, because Joan’s best friend is making out with a girl right in front of him, and he doesn’t know what to do with everything he’s feeling.

He doesn’t know why he’s even feeling this way in the first place. Or maybe he does, but his fogged brain prefers to cling to denial.

The thing is, his own girlfriend is right next to him, and he could kiss her too, but right now he wants the very concept of kissing to disappear. He wants Eric and this stranger they met twenty minutes ago to leave his sight, separately, for his own sanity. Perhaps he just wants his teammate to snap out of it and never do this again.

Unless he’s the one doing it with him. Joan has nothing against the concept of kissing then, and denial is futile when it comes to how obsessed he is with the way Eric uses his tongue, and the way he always claims Joan’s mouth, pulling at his lower lip until Joan is nothing but a shaking mess of need.

Eric is doing the same thing now, just with someone else, and Joan is mentally throwing daggers at a girl he’s never seen before, someone Eric probably won’t even remember after tonight.

Joan’s jealous.

Eric has his eyes half-lidded, chasing the stranger’s lips leisurely, his gaze fixed on her as one hand threads into her hair and the other keeps her chin tilted up. He looks like he’s into it. Joan’s heartbeat climbs into his throat, and he swallows hard.

‘My lips are dry too. Why are yours on hers?’

“Ey, get a room, you two!” he says in a mocking tone, wishing they’d get embarrassed and stop, but the only thing being mocked is the restless thing rattling inside his chest. And sadly, he knows better than anyone how thick skinned Eric can be.

The latter’s eyes flick to him, a small upward tug at the corners of his mouth showing that Joan has been heard, but instead of pulling away, Eric leans further into the girl, and the next thing the goalkeeper sees is her straddling his lap. It’s equivalent to someone kicking you in the gut and ripping the air out of your lungs, your throat coughing blood, and you can’t even defend yourself, let alone fight back because you’re left there, stuck in the ache of it.

Somewhere in the loud music of the club, with his attention totally absorbed by the man of his dreams living his dream with another pair of lips, Joan hears his girlfriend excuse herself for a drink. He should’ve been the one to get it for her, but he’s paralyzed by the intensity of Eric’s eyes, still on him, still smiling, still enjoying the awareness of just how tightly Joan is wrapped around his finger.

He’s always been like this.

Eric Garcia is mean.

He likes to test his best friend, he likes to dare him, he likes to fuck with his head, and not just his head, until Joan comes face to face with the fact that he’s a very pathetic man.

In that suspended moment, with Eric’s gaze already stirring a storm low in his belly, rearranging everything inside of him, Joan, as pathetic as he can be, can’t help but imagine himself being the one to hold him. The people dancing around them all disappear, the girl too. There’s only the two of them, the low fluorescent lights of the club, the muffled sound of the DJ, and the warmth of Eric’s body, close to his.

This one’s another kind of ache. Something he craves and has an odd attachment to, knowing it doesn’t do him any good when he’s left alone, but truly—emotionally, erotically, in every way—no one does him good like Eric does.

There’s beauty in ruins too. Like Empúries. People stop to look at what’s left of something that was once whole and stunning. That’s what Eric’s friendship feels like to him. Joan is the ruin, Eric is the beauty.

His fingertips are no longer burning as they tug at Eric’s supple skin inside the cruel confines of his mind. His own hands are rough from all the saves he has to make and all the gloves he’s had to change. Eric has this habit of kissing his hands after they’re done doing what they do when they run out of pretexts. Joan likes to think he does it as a silent thanks for all the times he’s stopped the opponents from scoring against them, the football club Eric loves so much.

Joan has come to love Barcelona only because Eric loves it so. He transferred there only because Eric dared him to.

Eric has this particular way of making Joan do things.

“You’re not coming to Barcelona, are you?” he’d said. Are you. And Joan left the other Barcelona club for him.

“You’re not getting a girlfriend, are you?” Are you. And Joan asked a dear friend of his if she wanted to be his girlfriend.

“You’re not bringing your girlfriend with you, are you?’ Are you. He’d said after training today when Ferran invited them to go for drinks together, not even bothering to show up himself. And here they are, and here Joan has lost sight of her, has erased the existence of Eric’s hook up and is busy imagining licking the seam of Eric’s lips, inviting him into his own lap and putting an end to the need clawing at him from under his skin.