Part 328: Young Pablo
He'd already been made aware of the stat before he flew out here to begin his debut World Cup, and now his fancy footwork had secured it: the youngest goal-scorer at the great international tournament since a young Pele, and the third-youngest ever to boot one in on this world stage. Sure, it was one of the latter triumphs of a 7-0 win that had barely needed it, but young Pablo Gavira was hardly going to let that rain on his parade, and he left the pitch as buzzing and elated as every other Spaniard on the squad, Costa Rica left in tatters by their exceptional performance.
The 5ft8 central midfielder tottered down the tunnel of the Al Thumama Stadium on aching feet, blistered beneath the socks, carrying his battered new boots dangling from one hand and running the fingers of the other through the sweat-soaked locks of his pale brown hair. Olmo and Soler went bombing past him, both equally high on the triumph of their World Cup goals, but more showy and vocal in their ecstasy - compared to them, Gavi staggered down into the stadium's interior with a dazed look on his thin young face and an almost nervous disposition, scared that if he pinched himself he would wake up and find he was still in Spain counting down the days to this epic tourney.
The Barca youngster was just casting his eyes up and down the tunnel for a sight of Pedri, concerned at where he'd lost his boy to in the jubilant muddle of the final whistle and their brief celebrations in front of the travelling fans - when he was grabbed quite firmly and physically about the shoulders by one of the passing players, a 6ft3 giant giving him a good shake and emitting a booming laugh of victory. You little legend,' roared the voice of Alvaro Morata, one of the Spain team's old stalwarts since the latest round of retirements. That was fantastic, you were incredible.'
The serious-faced 18-year-old turned and grinned appreciatively at the towering company of the Atletico Madrid striker, still not used to basking in the praise of men as seasoned and celebrated as this national hero - Morata was still shaking him by the shoulders and leaning in against him, steering him down the broad brightly-lit tunnel, his Spain shirt abandoned and just a clingy red under-shirt stuck tight against the high-rise muscle of his upper body.
Fucking brilliant full 90 minutes,' the former Chelsea star continued loudly, a late substitute to the action himself, and the last of the six goal-scoring players. The future of Spain, the FUTURE,' he declared dramatically, and with that he stooped in and planted a kiss on the crown of Gavi's scruffy hair, halting him in his path with his strong grip.
The teenager could only let out a muffled laugh at this tactile gesture, but the truth was he felt a little shudder of excitement pass down his match-weary body of compact muscle - he was enjoying being in the company of this 6ft3 warrior, a striker he'd admired for as long as he could remember, but a little more than that... a little more than the hero worship of a football fan-boy still in his teens: a certain excitement, one not dissimilar to how he had often felt in the company of now-retired Gerard Pique, the former king of Barcelona. And look where that had got him, choking and whimpering in a toilet cubicle at the Miami Spotify party. Yikes.
With a certain tension in his 5ft8 frame, the spry midfielder pulled gently away from Morata's steady grip, still grinning at him, and burbling his effusive gratitude. Big Alvaro was beaming down at him like a pride dad, reaching for his shoulder again and squeezing the muscle there. You little beauty,' the Madrid forward intoned. Everybody just wants to kiss you all over, you little beauty. Gorgeous goal. Yesss.' And with that, the dark-haired and handsome giant, one of the most popular gents in their sport, was retreating and making for the door into their side of the changing rooms, immediately pulled into a hug by one of the coaching staff and congratulated for his goal.
Young Pablo was left in a whole new daze for a moment, rocking on his socked heels, and stifling a little giggle of pleasure - as silly as it was, the teen couldn't help but briefly overthinking the interaction, the burly touch of Alvaro's big hands on his shoulders and arms, and the rough kiss planted on his crown. And then the suggestive language spilling from the older gent's mouth. Just a turn of phrase, just the typical manly contact of Spanish guys in their passion... it didn't need to suggest anything unusual, but Gavi's limited senior experience could suggest otherwise, given what he'd observed of Pique and then experienced at frighteningly close quarters, both aroused and terrified by the way he'd been briefly used and tossed aside by that outgoing legend.
Pedro Lopez, 19 going on 20, had noticed it too, striding down the tunnel at the rear of their assembly, having lingered a little too long waving to the stands and enjoying the number of banners with his name or face on; he saw big excited Morata grab and shake the outline of his Barca boy, and he saw the kiss too, though even at that moment another teammate was grabbing him too and planting one on his cheek in a flurry of manly passion, just goalkeeper Simon bear-hugging him on the way past, and shaking a still-gloved fist into the air. Pedri ignored him and staggered on, quite exhausted from midfield duty though he'd been benched in the latter stages of the easy win.
He followed the others into the Spanish quarters of the Qatari stadium, the last of the men to step in, and immediately joining others in beginning to roll down and strip away his sweaty footy socks and toss them in the laundry basket held by a member of their crew. Barefoot, the 19-year-old central midfielder moved through the thick crowd of yelling and chanting Spaniards, looking for his changing space at the wall, next to his bestie.
But ahead of him, another of the Spain squad had accosted the impressively youthful goal-scorer and was loudly emphasising his record-pushing achievement; it was a star of Madrid's opposing team to Morata's Atletico, but another big tall attacking player who was better-established in this squad than either teenager.
Marco Asensio was shirtless already as he pulled Gavi into a hug, interrupting the youngster in the middle of peeling away his own numbered kit top. In the furore of noise, Pedri couldn't actually make out what the Real Madrid winger was shouting at his friend, but he could see the look of wild pleasure on Asensio's supermodel looks, the almost-6ft football player hopping up and down and pulling Gavi into clumsy rhythm with him.
Passing them by to navigate the throng of Spanish players and find his place at the wall, Pedri was almost knocked aside by one of Asensio's bare elbows, and he dodged it with an awkward laugh and then hurried himself to his space on the wall, turning immediately to glance furtively back in Gavi's direction, unconsciously expecting the other Barca midfielder to catch his eye and be interrupted - but the 18-year-old was teetering on the spot with big handsome Marco, eyes wide and admiring, and a bewildered smile just plastered on his oft-frowning features.
Pedri couldn't help but examine Marco as competition: taller, older, more muscular. An absolute champion of La Liga, a centrepiece of the unstoppable Real Madrid. Close crony of Ramos and now Benzema. Not so long ago, Asensio had been the young sensation of Spanish football, just the role Pedri had stepped into in the past couple of years, handing over now to his friend and teammate... It was ridiculous, but the 19-year-old felt a brief flash of almost aggressive jealousy looking at him. Fucking hell, he was handsome, wasn't he? He didn't even look like a footballer, he looked like he should be in some Netflix drama on a beach, or some shit, or modelling swimming trunks or aftershave, or-
His view of the tall winger wrapping muscular arms about a wobbling unsteady Gavi was suddenly blocked, one of the team's senior physios suddenly up in his face and barking questions at him about the pain in his thigh that had led to his being benched; Pedri blinked furiously and pulled his focus in, nodding dumbly at the question of the professional, and trying to remember which leg had even been hurting.
Pedri was already in the showers, or so he guessed, by the time Gavi broke through of the congratulations of other players, his shirt and vest in a bundle in his arms, and staggered to his spot on this side of the square room, resting one knee on the bench and reaching up to retrieve his towel and toilet-bag. He pulled them down to rest on the bench by his knee and then hooked fingers into the stretchy waist of his shorts and undies, always a tad self-conscious as a 5ft8 youngster in a burly crowd of taller and older athletes, though he knew he had no real reason to be insecurity of his lean tanned form.
Down went three layers in one go: the baggy dark shorts and the taut matching under-shorts, and the skimpy black briefs beneath, all of it dumped about his bare ankles and the white towel almost instantly unfurled and thrown about his slim waist to cover his bubble butt from the room behind him, secured by a knot towards his right hip as fast as his deft hands could manage.
It was a good job he had tied it tight, as the free hand that might have gripped it in place was instinctively dragged into a hard noisy high-five with Busquets on his way into the showers, the older player emerging in an aura of steam and making a chefs-kiss gesture of approval at him. Into the showers he went, into the heat haze of steam and bodies, eyes carefully averted upwards in the age-old politeness of macho men sharing a nude space. He would have liked to find himself comfortably and safety next to his Barca pals, but that was another part of the same etiquette: just be quick and businesslike and take what space there is!
Towel loosed and hung, the tight-muscled young player found his way into the nearest space and pushed the lever to coat himself in warm-then-hot water, blinking as it dashed sweat from his fringe and face. He flinched in surprise as another big hand clutched at his shoulder to squeeze and shake him, and he found himself right next to the dripping wet figure of another Marcos, Llorente this time - the 6ft Atletico Madrid midfielder hadn't even made it onto the pitch, he thought, but he was in here grabbing a shower as if he had, one of the guys and glossy with slicked soap on his rich tan and lean muscle.
My boyyyy,' cooed the 27-year-old. The star of the night, for sure.'
`One of many!' Gavi protested, feeling the wet hand slide across his bare shoulder.
`Oh yeah, but you'll be the one everyone talks about,' Llorente was shouting over the hiss and roar of water and plumbing, and his voice echoed about the shower space to mingle with the thrum of other loud voices - but as he spoke, his attractive blue eyes seemed to sparkle, fixing this way and holding young Pablo to the spot.
`Maybe,' was all the 18-year-old could find to say, pausing in the middle of reaching into his toilet-bag to find his favourite bottle of scented shower gel - but no, Marcos was thrusting a hand this way with a bottle of some other toiletry product, gesturing it at him, in a way that seemed to give him no choice but to hold a hand that way and let Llorente spunk a big blob of musky product into it, before pushing it onto the little metal shelf and continuing to rub both hands across his defined chest and up his long neck.
Gavi realised he was staring a bit too long and he turned his eyes to the wall, slapping the handful of product against one pec and then working up a lather with it, then glancing to the right and finding that Llorente was still staring at him, his head now plunged under the showerhead and cascading his glossy blonde hair down over his brows, half-masking his bright blue eyes, but not enough. Marcos stared silently at him in the hubbub of the steamy shower and for a moment, Gavi stared back, mouth hanging slightly open; in that next flash of a moment, did he really see those baby blues swivel downwards and stare elsewhere than into his eyes? Or did he imagine it in the heat and confusion of the showers? It was impossible to confirm because he pulled his face away and rubbed both soapy hands across his face in a rush, a swell of panic filling his chest.
Next to him, he seemed to hear Marcos laugh, and then that big hand was on him against, the 6ft Madrid star slapping him between the shoulders and letting his fingers rub quite sensuously down a few inches of spine, but only for a fleeting moment, before his presence was gone and replaced with swirls of scented steam instead, and Gavi was just bracing himself against the excessively hot water and willing the heavy young cock between his legs not to start springing one of the endless boners that had marked his late teens.
Pedri watched them emerge from the showers, and his first thought was that there was no need for one player to be touching the other, their two towel-clad figures amongst the last to leave the shower block and cross the square changing room of excitable guys in various states of dressing: the 22-year-old teammate was almost steering the younger lad, an arm about his still-damp shoulders, an almost conspiratorial mafia pose between the pair of them, headed this way.
The towels about their waists created a stark contrast between the tanned hues of their exposed upper bodies, one a little darker than his Gavi's, and also more ostentatiously defined: muscles seemed to bulge everywhere on Ferran Torres' form, as the 6ft forward steered Gavi this way, talking in his ear and clutching him to his side. Gavi was laughing heavily, stomping along and holding at the knot of his towel in that special nervous way he did, as if convinced it would fall down and embarrass him at any second - as if the boy had anything to be embarrassed about...!
Torres was in a particularly excellent mood, responsible for two of the night's seven goals, and he was munificent in his success, grabbing at Gavi there in a way that was visibly patronising; the ex-City star had staked his claim at being the dominant striker of his country tonight, and his shiny pecs were puffed out as he talked to Pablo about god-knows-what, probably humble-bragging about what it was like to get two World Cup goals in one outing, for fuck's sake...
In the middle of zipping up the front of his chinos, Pedri caught himself in these bitter thoughts and he turned rapidly around, facing the wall and reaching for his fresh white polo shirt, the same matching designer gear that they would all be sporting as they were photographed exiting the stadium and heading back to the hotel for a brief celebration before bedtime curfew. Frowning to himself, the 19-year-old Tenerifian stuffed the white fabric into the waist of his chinos, pushing rather than tucking it in, and feeling his body heat rise under the thin material.
You've got a lot of World Cups to come, my friend,' he could hear Ferran saying smoothly with a chuckle in his tone, then, and you and me are going to take over the fucking world, I swear. La Liga is just the start.' Pedri found himself scowling and sneering at the cliche bravado, and wanting to turn round and point out to his own teammate that they weren't even in the Champions League right now; wow, stop being so petty, Lopez...!
He turned around, pulling at the soft collar of the polo shirt, and found Gavi with his strong back to him, arching down to the plump swell of his bottom under that thick white towel - but he had to pull his eyes away from that prize, knowing how overt he might accidentally look when surrounded by less open-minded guys...
And that was the stupid thing, wasn't it? He knew Ferran Torres to be as closed-minded as they come, on that issue anyway... he'd been quite scolded internally by the conversation he'd once shared with his 22-year-old friend, the time when the pair of them had been idly playing with their cocks in the showers of the Barca training campus... but Torres making it crystal-clear that any touching or helping out was a bit wrong and weird, or well beyond his boundaries. So Torres wasn't into that, fair enough, and that made Pedri's little burst of jealousy completely insane! What did it matter that Torres was hugging or holding his friend, or occupying his attention now in the centre of the changing rooms...? The two young men had just scored winning goals for their country in the greatest football tournament on the planet, and...
Cheeks blushing hotly, Pedri turned back around, unable to look at the way Torres had now put a hand again on one of Gavi's bare shoulders, his own arm rippling with dormant strength as he did. It was a bit much for him, though he knew he was being silly, and he pulled the light blazer about his shoulders and made a beeline for the door, since other players had already headed out and would be on their way to the coach, facing the lingering supporters and flurry of extra media.
On his way to the door, he had to awkwardly side-step, because the boss was coming back in, and shouting Gavi's name. Pedri ducked out of his way and caught the words from one of the other attendants, tournament staff who had floated in after the Spain manager: man of the match, they were saying, and Gavi was being urged to kit back up for a photograph with the obnoxious red trophy in the manager's hands.
Pedri had beaten him to the coach, since he was delayed by posing with his World Cup Man of the Match accolade, and so he didn't quite know where to sit - he grinned bashfully at the roar of applause that greeted him on the vehicle, starting to run out of humble things to say, and just briefly giving the sizeable trophy a little shake for his audience before proceeding down the aisle and trying to spot a comfortable space that had been left free. Just ahead and to his right, one player was slapping heavily at the seat next to him and gesturing him over, though tired Gavi might have rather collapsed into one of the spare double-seats nearer to the back.
But Aymeric Laporte had been particularly kind and welcoming to him in his first forays into this senior team, and a particularly robust supporter in tonight's big game, so Gavi relented and threw himself down next to the Man City centre-back.
Look at this huge thing,' Laporte remarked, taking the trophy from his hands and holding it aloft. Wow, what a way to start your first big Cup, kid...!' The French-born Spain player turned his handsome face this way and flashed him a toothy smile. `What next, eh? You've set a standard for yourself, Gavira!'
The 18-year-old paused in the middle of leaning out into the aisle and trying to work out who his Pedro had ended up sat with, and turned back to smile at Aymeric. I know I can't score EVERY game, don't worry,' he muttered, I'm not that naive. But... I can try. Haha.' He was glad when the older man laughed heartily at his quip and passed the MVP trophy back into his eager grip.
Don't be anything but ambitious,' the 28-year-old advised him with a broad smile. You set things on fire tonight. It was great. All those goals. We trashed them, haha. Oh, what a night. This is going to be some Cup.'
Gavi nodded eagerly, though he wanted to stretch about in his seat and look behind him, because he could faintly hear Pedri's voice but he wasn't sure quite where he was seated. Don't be daft, he told himself, you're not joined at the hip, you don't always need to know where he is...! Except that, it seemed, he did, because he leaned over to poke his face briefly into the gap between his and Aymeric's seats, clocking the dozing Rodri behind them, and through a thin gap behind that, a flash of Pedri's face, distinctive in its thick dark brows, concentrating on conversation with Garcia.
In doing so, Gavi had leaned in a bit too close to his neighbour, and Laporte exclaimed softly at this. Watch out,' he chuckled, giving him a gentle push on the shoulder, and leaving his hand there, just a big white smile as Gavi turned back to face him and apologise. You wanna go sit with someone else?' asked Laporte, though it sounded quite bright and pleasant, rather than an offended accusation.
No,' he lied softly, not at all.' He gave a smile that ended up a bit forced and awkward, and hugged onto the heavy little tower of his prize, wrapping his sleeved arms about it and noticing the thoughtful title of Laporte's head and the searching expression of the 28-year-old defender's deep-set eyes.
`Good,' City's centre-back declared simply, and he reached across to pat him once on the leg. Perhaps it was just a badly aimed little gesture, but his hand landed quite centrally on the flattened muscle of Gavi's thigh, but quite high past the mark of his knee, closer to his crotch, and it rested there for just a moment, holding onto his leg whilst the chiseled good looks of the older guy stared quietly across at him - and Gavi gawped back at him, feeling the warmth and strength of that touch through the creased chinos, and suddenly gulping in gentle alarm.
But then Laporte's hand was off his leg, and the naturalised Spaniard was chatting on amiably in his oddly-accented language, his French roots inescapable in many inflections and turns of phrase. Gavi mumbled his contributions and stared curiously at the other player as their coach rattled the short distance to the hotel that was their base, a series of fleeting thoughts troubling and exciting his mind... from the odd tenderness with which Aymeric had just touched him, back to the very rough-and-tumble interactions they'd shared as goal after goal was celebrated out on the pitch; from the way all of these guys seemed to be lavishing their attention on him in this international camp, to the ridiculous egotism of such an idea, and the mortifying self-awareness that followed it.
Gavi kept fairly quiet and listened to Laporte's banter, feeling what he thought must be Pedri's eyes on him through the gap between seats, that gaze nickling the downy hair on his neck with a mixture of nervous paranoia and needy excitement.
It was a strict two-beers limit at the Spain camp after-game, but still a rowdy little affair with a fair bit of singing and chanting, and some awkward karaoke inflicted on the guys who'd scored the seven goals; Pedri kept to the fringes of all this fun, not feeling quite entitled to the limelight, but unable to feel any envy or resentment because he cared more about Spanish success than his own reputation. But... the envy and resentment over things was harder to toss aside with an honourable grin. He gave up on his second bottle of imported Spanish beer and swapped it for a sparkling water that gave him more refreshment, and kept his distance from the current spectacle of Alvaro Morato trying to Frank Sinatra them all in between fits of self-conscious laughter.
Gavi had been resisting the imposition of public singing all night, he'd noticed, though he'd also been buried deep in conversation with almost all of the coaches and support staff, the middle-aged team all seeming to feel a paternal protection for the squad's junior addition, even now he'd turned 18. But he was now being dragged up onto the ad hoc stage of a couple of tables pulled together between the loose circle of chairs and sofas, the entire hotel bar rearranged to suit its high-profile occupants.
This, Pedri found to his grim surprise, was something he couldn't watch.
He knew how much shy Gavi would hate having to belt out a random song for the stupid entertainment of his comrades, and he knew that he had a strong duty to sit there and cheer him on, to be a comforting and reassuring presence for him amongst all of this silliness and camaraderie... But right now, the team's youngest player was being manhandled into action by Ferran Torres and Marcos Llorente, with Morata still holding the microphone and trying to get a `GA-VI, GA-VI' chant going to bully him into a singsong. And somehow it was just not something that the 19-year-old could bear to watch, suddenly feeling as though he would jump to his feet and kick over his seat, and punch at least one of those bigger lads in the face before dragging Pablo away from the fun in a ridiculous public strop that he'd never be able to explain or live down... Yep, that didn't sound a good idea.
Clutching his sparkling water, he murmured excuses to the guys on either side of him and skulked to the bar instead, hunching over it and refusing the attention of the waitress who immediately appeared next to him, her eyes full of flirtatious interest. He ignored it and stared down into the bubbles of the glass; he could still hear Morata's voice over the rising chant, still trying to sing `New York, New York', but other voices were protesting and the muffled crackle of interference signalled the passing of that electric baton. And then all he could hear was the shaky tremor of Gavi's voice breaking into a traditional Spanish folk song for a few bars, before turning to uncomfortable laughter and then drowning in the attentive applause of the Spain squad... a roar which was only cut off when the head coach seemed to have seized the microphone and declared curfew.
Pedri ignored it all, leaning his elbows and forearms against the bar and sipping his sparkling water like it was powerful rye whiskey in a cowboy tavern, his knuckles white with strange unwelcome tension and aggression. A voice soared over the fuss behind him, ushering them all away to their rooms, and repeatedly barking out the time they would be meeting for breakfast, and Pedri pushed the glass away from him, blinking his dark-lashed eyes heavily, and joining the shuffling exodus of footballers.
Gavi finally linked up with Pedri on the way to their shared room, catching sight of the other young player on his way up the last flight of steps; he didn't immediately notice how quiet the fractionally taller youth was, walking in his slightly hunched way with his hands pushed into the pockets of his chinos. But once they'd rounded a corner and were closer to the door of their suite, he realised that the 19-year-old hadn't looked at him once, and he felt a sad little lurch inside, finding some vague confirmation that his best mate had been avoiding him ever since the match at the Al Thumama.
He followed the other central midfielder in through the door to their room, a nearby lamp turning on automatically at their motion; but no sooner were they through the door and it falling shut after him, then Pedri's hands were on him and thrusting him against the pale peach colour of the wall. He hit the wall with a slight thud, taken aback, but excited by Pedri's hands on him and, just as instantly, his lips - the long deep kiss taking his breath, one tongue pushed in against his, lips rubbery and briefly numb before finding the sensitivity of that tender snog, and the rough tickle of dark stubble on his downy skin. The kiss was long and eager and left him gasping for air, and staring into his boy's face.
`Wow,' Gavi murmured weakly, and he was then silenced again as Pedri kissed him once more, pressing their mouths together quite roughly and clumsily, and pushing him harder and more possessively against the wall.
He pushed Pedri away with the flat of his hands, and he saw the anxious frown cloud that handsome face as the 19-year-old backed off him and trotted into the room, with Gavi catching his breath and steadying himself before following. Wow,' he repeated. What was that? I mean - I liked it, but-'
Sorry,' Pedri muttered. I just needed to.' He had turned his back this way, hands back in his pockets, and Gavi trailed after him, rubbing at his wet sensitive lips, and feeling the immediate swell inside the front of his dark blue chinos.
`I thought you were avoiding me,' he admitted in a slightly timid voice.
`What?' Pedri demanded, turning to look at him - his exclamation wasn't so much angry as hurt, and his open face looked scrunched up in stress as he stared pleadingly this way.
Gavi scratched at his head as he moved closer to the other boy. Well - you were - I dunno, I didn't seem to see you. I thought you were...' He made a clunky apologetic laugh, rubbing a hand over his stupid face. I thought maybe you were jealous cos I scored and you didn't, or something - I know, I know...'
Pedri grabbed him by one of his hands. `You think I'd act like that?!'
No, no,' Gavira insisted, squeezing the hand in his. Not really, I just... I dunno, was a bit confused - are you okay? Are we okay? Kiss me again...' He wanted answers, but he wanted to feel that mouth again first, and he trembled excitedly as Pedro held his body and snogged him once more, a bit less roughly than at the door, but with passion and a leisurely pace, pulling their warm bodies together through the matching white polo shirts.
I wasn't jealous,' his precious teammate muttered when he broke the kiss. You think anyone in that stadium was happier to see you score a goal than I was? It's just - when I came your way to celebrate, you were...' He twisted his face, looking more embarrassed than anything else now - Gavi stared at him, slow to comprehend, but picturing the ecstatic scene. The hugs and chest-bumps and practically piggy-backing one other player; it dawned on him that he couldn't quite picture Pedri in these celebrations. Pedri held him by both hands but looked down as he spoke. `I kept seeing them all over you, all the guys - bigger than me, better looking than me, all touching you and grabbing you, and...'
Are you jealous?' Gavi asked very quietly. You're jealous of me being around... our teammates?' He didn't mean for it to sound so accusing or ridiculing, and he bit his lip awkwardly, rubbing his thumbs over the back of his boy's hands. I... I mean, there was a lot of attention, but... Pedro, I've been waiting to be back up here all night long. I just wanted my friend. It's great to be loved by those guys but...' He hovered over the words that he'd said before, then just went for it. It's you I love,' he said in a voice that was quiet but heavy, loaded with implications. But he wasn't going to take it back. He needed to get used to saying it, since it's what he felt.
Pedri nodded silently, not quite reciprocating the sentiment, but his dark eyes saying something similar. I'm sorry,' he mumbled. I'm a stupid oaf. I just... I dunno. I got really... possessive. I wanted to hit somebody. Hah.' He grimaced and chewed his lip too and then relaxed as Pedri pulled in close and planted his lips on his. They kissed for two quiet minutes, more gently and quietly, and then Pedri sighed against his cheek.
I could score fifty more goals this winter,' he confessed, but they wouldn't mean anything compared to being here with you, Pedro.' He'd gradually dropped the diminutive suffix the longer he was intimate with his best friend, not sure why, but not wanting to refer to him in the same simple affectionate way as everyone else; besides, he loved it when the other teen called him Pablo instead of Gavi, he hoped for the same reason.
`You old romantic,' his Pedro teased.
`Old?' Gavi giggled very gently. He felt more devoted than ever now: to think that the jostling and manhandling from the likes of Morata and Torres and Llorente might have brought out such fierce temper in his Tenerife beau. It was odd, but it was turning him on, or turning him on even more... the sight and smell and presence of the darker-featured Spanish youth was already making him stiff and aching in his undies. He now just needed to cheer and relax him, to reassure - and he knew just how.
Lopez remained very still, letting out a long sigh, whilst he felt the gentle kiss of Pedro's mouth travel down the centre of his chest and tummy, pecking at him through the fine material of the shirt; and then lifting it a little so he could be kissed under the navel, against the short dark curls of hair that grew there. He reached down at his sides while he felt the slow clumsy job of Gavi's fingers undoing his button fly, and he helped him with it, guiding his chinos down at the sides, but then lifting his hands out of the way so that his precious boy could peel down the dark grey trunks below all by himself.
The 19-year-old football star looked down his front as his cock pulled loose, already semi and rising, and was taken gently in Gavi's hand, and then lips. He moaned openly, feeling no need to suppress or quieten himself in here, and just standing tall and strong as his cock hardened against the tongue and lips of his boy's mouth, slow and tender and loving. He reached down and tousled his fingers through the soft reddish-brown of Gavi's hair, stroking him lovingly whilst kisses travelled about the shaft of his meat, and around the retracting foreskin and the chunky dark pink head beneath.
For a while, he let this go on, rooted to the spot by Pablo's gentle attention, but he had to change it up quite soon - it didn't feel right to just stand here and accept this lavish blowjob, when he'd been a bit of a cock, and made his lover start to worry that he was jealous of his goal, or anything so rude and obnoxious.
`Up,' he whispered simply, and he patted the back of Gavi's head. He pulled back, cock sliding free of questing lips, and tugged his polo shirt up and off in one smooth move. It fell to the carpeted floor and he kicked and wriggled at his other clothes until they were off and he could throw his naked firm body against the bed, finally peeling one black ankle sock off at a time, lying on his side with his legs open and his hard-on jerking back and forth with every twitch of his physique. Gavi was hurrying to follow him, but delayed by a clumsy wrestle with his clothing that almost brought him down; Pedri chuckled fondled and rolled closer to help, steadying his midriff and helping him out of that shirt, then dragging him onto the bed before kissing at his chest whilst easing the chinos down and stroking his hip through the tight boxer briefs below.
`Let me at that bum,' he murmured into Gavi's ear, excited to do it yet again; he helped Gavi onto his front and clambered about, grabbing the lowered undies and yanking them right down the back of those sturdy young thighs, exposing the tanned globes of Pablo's full cheeks. As usual he took his time, kissing one and then the other, giving them a good rub and jiggle, then pulling them open and stretching his oversized tongue. And as usual, Gavi let out a long groan of almost surprise, letting Pedri in at his hole, licking at it and teasing it, putting his one private skill to use as he had for the first time just last month, but had repeated half a dozen nights since. He knew how much his Gavi loved it, and he supposed he must be very good at it; he wasn't sure why it made his dick so hard and leaking, but it did, and he was glad that it worked for them both.
They swapped after a little while, crawling about the bedding and pausing to snog, before he was pushed onto his back and parting his fluffy thighs so that Gavi could kiss and lick at every inch of his tan-coloured cock. He moaned appreciatively, cooing Pablo's name and trying to massage his ego - `The youngest goal-scorer going... the champ... Spain's new hero...!' He thought of how it had felt to present that Young Player of the Year trophy to his successor at the recent ceremony - he supposed some of his envy had sprung up then, seeing the attention his fellow teen got once suited and booted, but it would have been silly to sulk and become possessive, with the 18-year-old turning to stare cluelessly at him every few minutes and needing his direction through every stage of the evening. It had been a magical night and he had licked him out good and proper at the end of the ceremony, not even allowing the other Spaniard to reciprocate by sucking his cock, just investing entirely in the younger player's pleasure.
Even the thought of that spurred him on now, and he whispered the favourite command at him: `Sit on my face.' He pushed his body further down the sheets and let Gavi straddle his face like he had the first time. He liked the weight of those soft cheeks on his face, tonguing upwards and holding him by his thighs, whilst Gavi's voice rose and fall in wondrous exclamations of pleasure.
Just like Pedri, Gavi was fixated on pleasuring the other, and he couldn't quite relax into riding that magic tongue, as good as it felt. He fell to one side after several crashing waves of pleasure, and had to resist pulling on his cock in case he came already. He hunched over to the side, crouching over Pedir's prone form, and kissing around his tummy whilst reaching to pull back and forth on his cock - then returning his mouth to it, bent over him, coming at it from a different angle and wondering if it felt even better, since now Pedri was REALLY moaning, practically yelling his name. For a sexy moment, the 18-year-old imagined that the occupants of their neighbouring rooms could hear everything, and he loved it, wanting all the other Spanish men to know who he belonged him, indulging the shaky belief that Morata, Asensio, and all those others, fancied him and wanted to make their mark on his lithe young body.
As he sucked, he felt Pedri's hand on his bottom, stroking and squeezing at his cheeks some more, but then sliding a fingertip exploratively between them, and he loved the shuddering taboo sensation of it. A finger felt more alien than a tongue there, for some reason, and he shook nervously as Pedri's wandering finger began to push a little more firmly, rolling close to his most private spot, and when he paused in sucking cock he guggled and made a muffled `Fuck' through his panting breaths.
Go on, suck it,' urged Pedri in a throaty voice; his other hand came over to push Gavi's face down and he took the direction willingly, opening wide again and sucking on the precious dick, whilst his cheeks were parted a little and Pedri's middle finger pushed against his ring, circling and kneading at it and making him clench anxiously. Relax,' he heard the other midfielder's voice purr hopefully, just relax...' He tried, but it was easier said than done, and he felt tense and even more clenched as the finger pushed a bit too firmly for his liking, but then - oh, fuck - so suddenly, it was like his bottom had opened up and eaten it. He could feel the finger enter him and it made him quite choke on Pedro's cock, gasping for air and drooling over the shaft - Ohhhhh...'
That's it,' cooed Pedri's voice. Relax...'
The finger wobbled and teased, and he felt it play in and out of his entrance ever-so-slightly, making him tingle and throb and feel so many odd sensations at once. He kissed at the tip and sides of Pedri's cock, partly to distract him from the almost ominous sensations, and he pawed and stroked at those upper legs, and onto the lower section of Pedri's increasingly defined abdomen. He looked up the older boy's body and met his dark eyes, seeing the excitement and desire in them, a hotness that made him want to relax and let this happen, even if his taut young body was carefully resisting it, cheeks tightening and clenching about the invasive digit. Was it really still just one finger? It felt so huge...!
He stared into Pedri's gorgeous face and wondered madly how he could be stupid enough to envy any imagined `competition' - as if anybody on the Spain team was half as good-looking or wonderful as his best friend?! It was a mad concept, and it made him guilty for the tremors of excitement he'd felt as Morata kissed his crown or Llorente stroked his shoulder, or as his bicep grazed Ferran's pectoral, or Laporte's hand descended to his tense thigh. He shouldn't have been tickled and excited by those brushes, because all he wanted was HIM - oh! The finger pushed a bit more firmly into him, perhaps up to the knuckle? He let out a little whimper that turned into more of a groan, and he felt Pedri's body twist about him; the 19-year-old was kissing him on the back, on the centre of his spine, and withdrawing his finger to squeeze and stroke one butt cheek.
Gavi was on his elbows and knees now, frozen uncertainly in the middle of the bed, and he could feel Pedri over him and behind him, kissing and stroking his back and sides, and his rump, and then running that finger back into his damp crack, stroking it over his tiny virgin hole, and then... oh, fuck. His body tensed, knees digging into the mattress and face pressed in against his hot forearms. It wasn't a finger against his hole now. It wasn't a couple of fingers, even. It was something bigger and warmer and a little softer, a rounded shape pushing over that tight muscular inlet, and he could hear Pedri's suppressed moan, and also feel both of his hands, rubbing his lower back and holding his hips, and the gentle but overwhelming pressure of that physical presence beginning to roll harder against his rear end, wow...
He heard himself let out the little gasp of fear and pain as if the noise came from someone else, and he felt the sting and ache as if in a distant world, but then more pressing and immediate was Pedri's kiss on his neck and whisper in his ear, hot and mumbled and apologetic. Sorry, baby, sorry,' hissed the other footballer's voice. I just thought I could try, but... I'm sorry, I'm sorry if I hurt you...' It HAD hurt, and it had scared him, but it was instantly like a dim memory, because Pedri was holding him and kissing his neck and cheek, and just stroking his body and going nowhere near his tense clenched bottom. `Come on, wank with me,' whispered Pedri's voice, and the other lad's hand was on his dick, pulling awkwardly on it as he so rarely did.'
Pedri turned his head and stared into the other Spanish midfielder's eyes, his worry showing across his face; he shouldn't have pushed things like that, but once he'd slid a finger a little way in, he'd been unable to stop himself, and he'd really thought maybe he could... It wasn't something they'd ever talked about at all, but it had suddenly seemed like what HAD to happen, as if someone else was writing the script. But, he told himself firmly, he didn't need it, it didn't have to happen - nothing that hurt or worried his Pablo was worth it. He grabbed and pulled on his lover's dick in a forced and clumsy way, still uncomfortable touching it, but desperate to make him cum soon, because he could feel that dull throb in his own tight bollocks, and knew he'd spill his load in a minute or so. His cock had felt so tingly and sensitive as he pushed the tip of it over that wet little hole, in a way that he'd never experienced in his limited experience with girls.
They stared into one another's wide eyes, their breathing heavy and their bodies so close together, wrists and arms brushing as they pulled on each other in sync. When the moment was imminent, Pedri leaned in and kissed him, snogging at that glorious mouth until he was groaning into it, spurting his jizz over his boy's hand and wrist and tummy. In only moments, he felt the warm splash of more cum mixing with it, both of their cocks quivering and twitching as they let loose their milky young loads.
`I love you,' Gavi told him in a shuddering moan.
I love you,' he replied earnestly, and felt more sure of it once it was out loud. My gorgeous boy.' He snogged him deep and rough, like he had at the door, and he held his neck as he did, and rolled him back onto the bedding, pinning him there so he could kiss him forever if he wanted, all night and beyond; Gavi was his, and not those other guys', and they could fuck off if they thought they were getting anywhere near him. The same hot Spanish rage boiled in his blood, even now he should be reassured - the same urge to punch Ferran or Marco in the face, to wrestle Aymeric to the ground or race furiously into Alvaro in a rugby tackle into the wall. He'd fight anyone to protect and hold this boy, even Gerard Pique, if the old man ever showed his face and tried a thing again, as he'd feared right up until the moment the Barcelona icon bid his retirement farewells.
`What are you thinking about?' Gavi asked him sweetly, stroking his spent cock and kissing his throat.
Pedri hesitated, letting the red mist dissipate. `Nothing,' he mumbled, and kissed him on the lips, enjoying the magic of the World Cup, here in a football fantasy with his favourite person in the world.
'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/
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