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writefightandflightclub · 2 months

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Flight Instinct: (Santiago “Pope” Garcia x Francisco “Catfish” Morales)

Author’s note: this is a blurb request, and is a continuation of my poly!Triple Frontier fic, Captain of the Team. This could be read as a standalone I guess… but will make a hell of a lot more sense if you’ve read CotT and other blurbs which (chronologically precede this and) are connected to that ‘verse, i.e. Solid Ground, and Helicopter Guitar. 🧡

Screenshotting the request for this, which was sent in by the lovely @for-a-longlongtime 🧡 I’m sorry there’s no smut! But this is the scene that happened when I pressed the “play” button in my head. I hope you enjoy it, and thanks so much for the ask and your kind words about Solid Ground! I love this pairing and it was so fun to revisit them a little further down the line (though this is a little more of a rushed effort than the last one) 😀✨🙌

Pairing: Santi x Frankie centric for this blurb (Santi’s POV) but references to wider poly!relationship including Will and fem!reader.

Genre/warnings: m/m, early relationship, some angst and Santiago’s usual insecurities, smut references but only steam in the fic itself, some fluff.

Length: blurb, fairly short

Gif: by @pedrorascal 🧡

Santiago looks at the man - Francisco - reclined on his couch.

He looks beautiful. Unfathomably so. Long limbs stretched out, his dirty-pink Henley coordinated with the mauve lick of his plush, pouty lips. With the flush of exertion still held in his cheeks - from diligently sucking Santiago’s soul out of his dick less than half an hour ago. The garment rides up to reveal bare stomach. The dusting of his happy trail drawing Santiago’s gaze down to those tight, tapered hips. To his huge, powerful hands which nestle the paperback with care, dwarfing it in the broad span of his grip. He’s beautiful, his hawkish face tipping down towards the page, warm brown eyes soft and intent.

The fucking audacity, Santiago thinks. And the way he’s so casual about it too?

Still. Desire reliably twists a knot in Santiago’s belly, tightening like a fist even if he had been left very well-sated.

So then, Santiago tuts at him for the audacity of him daring to… for daring to…. Well. For something he can’t quite put his finger on yet. “Frank. What are you doing?”

Santiago sees Francisco’s eyes flutter closed in subtle aggravation. Maybe at the interruption. More than likely, though, at his harsh tone - completely uncalled for. And yet, calm and composed, he closes the book. “Okay,” he says with a finality. The straw that broke the camel’s back, apparently. “What’s going on with you tonight?”

“Nothing.” Well, that feels like a lie as soon as it’s out of his mouth. Francisco looks well aware of that fact though. Always was annoying like that. Seeing through his bullshit.

“So you always parade around the house like an aggravated chicken?” Immediately after asking his question, Francisco tilts his head, mentally answering it for himself. Often, actually.

That irks Santiago even more. So, he huffs and plants his hands on his wide hips, and meanwhile, Francisco rolls onto his side, propping his head on his hand. Somehow that makes him look even more beautiful as the lamplight slips fluidly over the planes of his face. Mingles into his dense mass of curls like liquid gold.

Annoying.

“Oh no,” Francisco rumbles, a deep, slightly mocking lilt to his tone which makes Santiago’s skin thrum despite himself. “Not you sticking that cute little hip out.” Francisco’s cheek tugs up with a lopsided smile, even if Santiago’s own smile does not greet him in return.

Perturbed, for no legitimate reason he can fathom, he scoops his forefinger and thumb around his mouth, his stubble rasping. He taps his foot almost impatiently, as though frustrated that Francisco hasn’t yet given him the thing he needs but can’t even name yet.

It’s hard. Makes him feel uneasy. An instinctual rather than conscious thing. A buzz in his limbs. A flutter in his chest.

A desire to leave.

To leave the room.

Maybe the country.

Definitely his feelings.

But he doesn��t.

He remembers what Francisco had told him last time he’d pulled that shit -firmly, and in no uncertain terms. “If we’re doing this, this can’t continue to happen, you hear me? I need you to stay in the room. Be a dick if you want. Just stay in the fucking room. After all this fucking time, man. Show me you at least respect me enough to give me that courtesy.”

He does. He does respect Francisco. After all this time. So, he stays. Despite his base instincts - which flood his body with the urge to run. The activation of his flight instinct. Thankfully, he supposes, Francisco is a pilot. If there’s anyone who can navigate him back to solid ground, it’s this guy.

“Come on. Sit down.” Francisco swings his legs, planting his feet to the floor. Sits up and pats the space beside him on the couch.

Santiago sighs deeply first; but then he sits, even if he doesn’t relax into it, perching his ample ass on the couch edge. He can feel the tension contorting his expression into something surly. He can’t fix it, but he makes sure to at least look down at the carpet instead of directly at Francisco. Somewhere deep down he knows he doesn’t deserve to receive the full brunt of his mood.

“Is this… because of the engagement?” Francisco ventures.

“No!” Santiago snaps back indignantly. Well. That’s another lie, apparently. As soon as that thread is tugged on, Santiago feels there’s truth in it. You and Will announcing your engagement has him feeling a lot of feelings - even if he can’t fully admit that to himself yet. Even if he can’t name them all yet. Still, that’s not quite it. At least… it’s not all of it.

“Well. Good.” If Francisco has noticed the lie, he steps over it. Instead of pulling him up on it, his hand slides down Santiago’s back and, counterintuitively, the man stiffens against the bestowed comfort. “Because they said it won’t change anything and honestly I believe-“

“-It’s not about that,” Santiago bristles.

“Okay.” Francisco’s hand smoothing at his back almost melts him. Almost. Stubbornly, he resists it. Still can’t fully admit to all the ways the man can see right through him. “Then wh-

Abruptly, Santiago rises to standing. An unfathomable adrenaline piping through his limbs. It feels like fear; though with no physical source he can name. “-What are we even doing, Frank?”

Frankie’s coffee cup brown eyes fall warm on Santiago, not bitter, even as the man clearly struggles to follow his train of thought. Honestly, Santiago is struggling to follow it himself. All he knows is he’s feeling… feelings.

“I mean. Seriously. Those two are engaged and we’re… I mean.” His voice falters. He hates that. Doesn’t like to feel vulnerable. Doesn’t like the way Francisco is able to pour himself into every crack he can find, sticking him together like glue. “Why the fuck are you on my couch? On a Tuesday night?”

“Would Wednesday work better for you, or..?”

“Frank, I’m serious. What are we doing?”

Santiago shuffles from foot to foot. Curls his tongue around his lip. Wants to run. Wants to get away from here. Doesn’t want Francisco to see him all opened up. He’s seen him all opened up. All opened up for him. Opening him up; and he can’t let him crawl inside any deeper.

He wants to leave the room.

But he doesn’t.

He risks a look back at Francisco, his head hung and his hands clasped in his lap. Santiago sees exactly what he expected to see there. Sees disappointment.

But he’s trying. For Frank, he’s trying..

Goddamn. He can say the right thing when he has something to gain. But oh boy. It’s a different story altogether when he has something to lose, isn’t it?

Francisco doesn’t rise to it though. Instead, he looks up at Santiago levelly. He feels embarrassed when he does that. Like Francisco is a man and meanwhile he’s somehow behaving like a small child.

“Take a second,” Francisco soothes, rising to standing in front of Santiago. “What is it that you actually wanna say to me?”

Santiago sniffs. Still frantic despite Francisco’s calm.

Stay in the room.

Stay on the ground, pendejo.

“You come here to fuck me and now you’re reading.” His palm gestures towards the couch in frustration. “You’re just sat there…”

Francisco’s eyebrows jump up, gently - to his credit, really trying to interpret what’s going down here. “Reading.”

“Yeah. Like this is all some…” Santiago doesn’t know where he’s going with this tirade, honestly. But he’s damn sure going to let it out anyway. “We’re not fucking married.”

Ah. There it is.

A flood of emotion rides in on the crest of that realisation. “We’re just hooking-up.”

A swallow sinks down Francisco’s corded neck. His mouth scrunches up into a pout, but other than that, he doesn’t give much away. Not beyond a tiny, discernible fissure of sadness in his tone. “Oh. I hadn’t realised that’s what we were doing.”

It’s preposterous, really. Preposterous to think that 18 years of friendship - and now this - could be reduced to “hooking-up”. Like he hasn’t known Frank for longer than he’s had the goddamn couch he’s complaining about him laying on?

Still - because of course he does - Santiago doubles down. Even as Francisco’s arms fold across his chest, suddenly making Santiago feel more lonely than he has in months. He tries not to dwell on the realisation that the past few months have been the first time he hasn’t felt lonely in such a long time. “Frank. Be real for a second. Like I’m not just some pit stop? You know. Until you find a new Mom for Bella?”

He can’t stand to look at the anger which flashes in Francisco’s eyes when he says that.

In fact, Santiago wants to run from himself in that moment. From the way he can twist something good and turn it bad. From the way he always seems to have the power to make his worst fears become real. Because he just has to poke something over and over to test how real it is. But, now that he’s started? He can’t stop.

“Fuck. And then, Will and…” he trails off before he says your name. Can’t bear to say it. Pulls on that thread and suddenly it’s all connected. Him and Frankie and you and Will. All tied together in a web he can’t yet understand, let alone trust. It’s all linked to the same fear in the pit of him.

There is a beat, and Santiago chews some more words down.

“You think we’ll all leave you.” Frankie says plainly, struck by the epiphany. Finally slotting everything into place, and Santiago feels his face pinch and draw down. Feels his chest tighten.

“No. That’s not what I’m saying.” Yeah. Yeah, Frank, that’s exactly it.

Santiago’s looking at the floor, but he can still see Frankie’s looming presence as he shuffles closer, mumbling idiota fondly under his breath.

Santiago is terrified that he will be angry. Expects it. Thinks he deserves it. But, instead, he feels Francisco’s strong arms wind around his middle. He feels the warm press of Frankie around him, muddling him closer. Still, although he wants to, he doesn’t yield to it yet. Not all the way.

“You’re the biggest flight risk around here, cariño.” Francisco chuckles warmly. “If any fucker was about to leave I’d have bets on it being you.“

“Fine!” Santiago snaps, irked by the mere suggestion even if he’s done it a hundred times before. “Maybe I will!”

“Oh. You will?”

He hadn’t expected Francisco to call his bluff, honestly. Hadn’t expected a lot of things when it came to him, to be fair. His next works are weaker. “I might.”

“Okay,” Francisco shrugs, before starting towards the doorway. Christ. Is this it? Has he fucked it already? Is this done?

“Where are you going?” He asks, his voice breaking.

“To the bedroom.”

“Why?”

“You’re coming, idiota.” Francisco doesn’t look “done”. Doesn’t look angry, even. Instead, he tilts his head -come on- and holds his hand out for Santiago.

“Why?” Santiago asks, even as he obliges.

Francisco leads him to his own bedroom then. Walks to the chest of drawers and pulls one of them open, lifting out piles of Santiago’s clothes and tossing them on to the bed.

“What are you doing?” Santiago’s eyes flit around the room in confusion. Embarrassment, as Francisco makes visible the exact upheaval he’s threatening.

“Well, see? That’s up to you. I’m either helping you pack, in case you wanna high tail it outta here - to get away from me reading so offensively on your couch. Or…” Francisco offers, matter-of-factly, “… I’m clearing myself a fucking drawer.”

“Huh? What for?”

Francisco turns towards him. Closes the gap between their bodies again. Presses his palm to Santiago’s face and rests the pad of his thumb on his shapely chin. “So that I have somewhere to put my stuff.” His gaze softens, and he presses a chaste kiss to the man’s lips. “When I stay over on Tuesdays.”

And with that, Francisco rests his case. Retrieves the book Santiago hadn’t even realised he’d stuffed into his back pocket before heading upstairs, and rounds the bed. Reclines himself on the clear side, looking all beautiful again.

Santiago sighs.

Santiago’s side of the bed, meanwhile, is covered in piles of his clothes. He can’t even lay down next to him. Not until he deals with this. Whatever “this” is.

Francisco is a clever fucker, alright.

Santiago saws his hand across his stubble as, meanwhile, Francisco disappears into his next chapter, not even looking up at him. “Your call, Santiago. Or, after 18 years, is a fucking drawer moving too fast for you?”

With Frank’s joke… it’s ridiculous, suddenly.

He feels ridiculous suddenly.

The situation and his anger and his fear feels… ludicrous.

He sees his situation better for what it is. It’s beautiful. Beautiful like Frank is.

Guess what? Santiago stayed in the room, and it all grew just a little less scary. In no small way thanks to his skilled pilot, who has spent so long learning his awkward, complex controls. Knows how to push all his buttons in just the right way.

His chest feels lighter. The knot in him unspools. An awed smile even cracks his face as he picks up a pile of boxers. “Well. You don’t need a whole drawer do you?”

“¡Ay, dios!” Frankie complains fondly.

“I mean. You don’t wear all that many clothes while you’re here, do you?” He raises an eyebrow suggestively - just in time for Francisco to clock it when he looks up, a smile chiselling itself from his strong features.

“Need extra hoodies, don’t I? You steal ‘em, pendejo.”

The two men lock eyes for a moment. Study one another, almost wistfully. Softer now. Full of feeling and affection.

Santiago knows it. Knows this is far more than hooking-up. And that’s it. That’s exactly what he’s so afraid of. He’s scared because it’s more than he’s ever felt. Deeper than he’s ever fell.

That’s the risk when you’re flying though, he supposes.

Still, there’s something about the soft light dancing in Francisco’s warm coffee cup eyes that makes him feel far less fearful. Makes him feel braver than he thought he could be.

“I’m sorry,” Santiago admits.

“I know you are.”

It’s okay. It’s okay to be scared, Francisco’s gaze tells him wordlessly. Just stay in the room. Just stay in the fucking room.

Santiago moves the final piles of clothes on to the top of the dresser and he crawls on to the bed beside Francisco. He nestles his cheek against the taller man’s chest. Curls his form around him and Francisco wraps him safely in his embrace. He feels the man’s heartbeat thud, pleasantly slow and steady, beneath his ear. He breathes in and out with the rise and fall of his chest, feeling the tension eke out of him.

“For the record?” Francisco begins, his voice striking a deep and robust note which shimmies right through him.

A divot notches in Santiago’s brow. “Yeah?”

“I’m not going anywhere. You got that?”

Francisco’s arms wrap him tighter, and meanwhile, Santiago’s eyes squeeze shut, fighting against hot, spiking tears of relief. He feels a warm, percussive kiss being planted at his hairline. Feels Francisco’s fingers raking impossibly gently through his curls.

“Better?”

“Mhmm,” Santiago agrees. “Yeah.” And, just for a moment, he allows himself to tug a little more forcefully on that thread. The one where you’re all connected. Him and Francisco, and Will and… you. For once, he tries to imagine the thread not as a web to tangle him up, but more like a… safety net. As something he could fall into, instead of run from. After a few moments of contemplating this, Santiago’s face splits in a tentative grin. “You know. She’s gonna look hot as all hell in a wedding dress.”

Frankie’s throaty chuckle, which sounds out, has to be his favourite sound in the whole world, and so, as he’s still laughing, Santiago opts to prop himself up on one elbow. Seeks out Fransisco’s gaze to meet with his own. He wants to tell him while he’s still laughing. Wants to believe this can all turn out happy.

“I love you.”

The words flow from Santiago’s chest so naturally, so freely and yet, immediately, a more solemn note chokes Francisco’s laughter. Weighs his smile down like a stone, until he is looking back at him with wet, shining eyes, his plush, mauve lips slightly parted in surprise.

He looks at Santiago as though he’s been waiting for him to figure that out.

He looks at him like he’s surprised, or like he never expected he’d live to hear those words out of his mouth.

Then, screw being on solid ground, Santiago thinks. As Francisco - after a dumbfounded beat - meets his revelation with a searing kiss, Santiago’s heart takes flight.

Francisco’s tongue curls tenderly into his mouth. His body rolls to shift Santiago beneath his weight, his knees falling open either side of his tight hips.

“I love you too,” Francisco says, voice revving with deep feeling as he braces on top of him. Then; “thank you”.

Santiago blinks. “For the drawer?!”

Francisco’s curse under his breath is nothing but fond. “Idiota. No. For trusting me enough to say that.”

Francisco’s tongue delves into his mouth once more, opening him up.

Frank, everywhere. All over him. With his tongue; his body; his heart.

Opening him up. Opening him up. Opening him up.

He’s opening him up, and what’s more… Santiago wants to let him in.

He wants to let Francisco into the deepest parts of him.

#Pedro pascal #Oscar Isaac #Santiago Garcia x Frankie Morales #triple frontier #santiago pope garcia #Francisco catfish morales #Santiago pope Garcia x Francisco catfish morales

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