repair.
My mother's already read it. So I figured I might as well let you all read it too.
Title: Repair
Pairing: Fernando Torres / Sergio Ramos.
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Nothing more than the product of a restless imagination.
Summary: Internationals - the pressure and the pleasure.
Notes: Inspired by the video that thecurea7x shared here a while back. I wrote this eons ago and am finally posting it thanks to some nudging by the lovely burningliz. ♥
Feedback > life. If you feel the need to give constructive criticism, please do.
Fernando bites his lip, his foot tapping impatiently to the sound of the roaring fire of voices awaiting him. His palms are clammy as he clenches and unclenches his fists, a hot rush of nerves bubbling up from his stomach into his chest.
Fernando's head talks to itself. Telling him to calm down, to pump up, to relax, to tear the stadium apart. A thousand contradictions to match all the moments he has to own in the ninety minutes of elevated play into which he so badly wants to immerse himself, as he waits here in the heavy air of the tunnel, the unspoken whispers getting louder and louder in the anxious silence.
The boys are ready, but unprepared, always unprepared for the fear that grips them all before every match. The chaos of their emotions, as it can never be conjured in training or in hotel rooms, is baring its teeth as they wait restlessly to let it all out. The tangible tension in the space between them, stained by short, quick gasps of desperately snatched air and penetrated by wide, terrified eyes, mounts as the noise outside gets angrier, and thickens as the gap closes between anticipating and acting.
Fernando's head talks to itself. Fleeting images of possibility flood his mind - the chances he might get, the moments he might lose, the match he might win. His skin crawls in the heat, the sweat already forming in between the delicate hairs on his neck, before he has so much as taken a step. He feels weak, but wills himself to feel strong. Carrying the weight of a nation on his shoulders, he stands tall and beckons the moment to come closer.
He is ready.
The referee making his way to the front of the line, the boys at the back suddenly beginning to slap the backs of their senior team-mates, final prayers being uttered and eyes glancing up at the heavens. Fernando's terror lurches, reaching into the farthermost corners of his head and permeating any empty space it can find. His eyes closing briefly in weary impatience as he aches to feel grass beneath his feet and escape the obtrusive clacking of studs on tiles, Fernando's fingers tremble just slightly as the crowd's song continues to boom, thousands of cheers and reprehensions and hopes and hates screaming in a one-bodied voice.
But the twitching in his hand is met by warm, sweaty fingers, just brushing his skin. Sergio's familiar scent drifts through him and nestles into his head, somewhere between the excitement and the fear. And Sergio's lips quickly, brashly press against the tightness of his cheek, in a firm kiss that speaks volumes of reassurance, companionship, and trust.
Sergio doesn't look at him, turning away to offer the others the same token of love. As the cameras twist bulkily in the arms of hungrily inquisitive men and the opposing players gaze stubbornly ahead, Fernando's eyes linger after Sergio, who so determinedly asks them all to believe in themselves as much as he does, to put aside adult fears of failure and embrace the childlike thrill of opportunity on its grandest stage.
And, the soft wetness of Sergio's mouth still lingering on his cheek, Fernando relaxes his jaw and straightens his back once more. Lifting his head, he inhales deeply, his breath no longer shuddering, but open and hungry. As the team makes its way forward out of the tunnel and into the blistering, overwhelming noise and white light of the stadium, Fernando embraces the moment.
Because, if he doesn't, the moments to follow would be worth less. The quiet tension of expectation makes the expected so much bigger, and better, and something worth being nervous for. Sergio so fluidly assuring them all that nerves were okay, eases the ache in Fernando's body and reminds him, as Sergio has done time and time before, that fear is merely excitement turned conscientious, and nothing as sinister as palpitating heartbeats and shaking hands try to evoke.
Sergio, his youthful optimism and unashamed enthusiasm, believes that they can be gods. And if Sergio believes it, Fernando believes it. So he walks out with his head held high, his mouth closed and his stare hard in steely determination, Sergio walking in front of him, guiding him, with him.
He is ready.
Title: Repair
Pairing: Fernando Torres / Sergio Ramos.
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Nothing more than the product of a restless imagination.
Summary: Internationals - the pressure and the pleasure.
Notes: Inspired by the video that thecurea7x shared here a while back. I wrote this eons ago and am finally posting it thanks to some nudging by the lovely burningliz. ♥
Feedback > life. If you feel the need to give constructive criticism, please do.
Fernando bites his lip, his foot tapping impatiently to the sound of the roaring fire of voices awaiting him. His palms are clammy as he clenches and unclenches his fists, a hot rush of nerves bubbling up from his stomach into his chest.
Fernando's head talks to itself. Telling him to calm down, to pump up, to relax, to tear the stadium apart. A thousand contradictions to match all the moments he has to own in the ninety minutes of elevated play into which he so badly wants to immerse himself, as he waits here in the heavy air of the tunnel, the unspoken whispers getting louder and louder in the anxious silence.
The boys are ready, but unprepared, always unprepared for the fear that grips them all before every match. The chaos of their emotions, as it can never be conjured in training or in hotel rooms, is baring its teeth as they wait restlessly to let it all out. The tangible tension in the space between them, stained by short, quick gasps of desperately snatched air and penetrated by wide, terrified eyes, mounts as the noise outside gets angrier, and thickens as the gap closes between anticipating and acting.
Fernando's head talks to itself. Fleeting images of possibility flood his mind - the chances he might get, the moments he might lose, the match he might win. His skin crawls in the heat, the sweat already forming in between the delicate hairs on his neck, before he has so much as taken a step. He feels weak, but wills himself to feel strong. Carrying the weight of a nation on his shoulders, he stands tall and beckons the moment to come closer.
He is ready.
The referee making his way to the front of the line, the boys at the back suddenly beginning to slap the backs of their senior team-mates, final prayers being uttered and eyes glancing up at the heavens. Fernando's terror lurches, reaching into the farthermost corners of his head and permeating any empty space it can find. His eyes closing briefly in weary impatience as he aches to feel grass beneath his feet and escape the obtrusive clacking of studs on tiles, Fernando's fingers tremble just slightly as the crowd's song continues to boom, thousands of cheers and reprehensions and hopes and hates screaming in a one-bodied voice.
But the twitching in his hand is met by warm, sweaty fingers, just brushing his skin. Sergio's familiar scent drifts through him and nestles into his head, somewhere between the excitement and the fear. And Sergio's lips quickly, brashly press against the tightness of his cheek, in a firm kiss that speaks volumes of reassurance, companionship, and trust.
Sergio doesn't look at him, turning away to offer the others the same token of love. As the cameras twist bulkily in the arms of hungrily inquisitive men and the opposing players gaze stubbornly ahead, Fernando's eyes linger after Sergio, who so determinedly asks them all to believe in themselves as much as he does, to put aside adult fears of failure and embrace the childlike thrill of opportunity on its grandest stage.
And, the soft wetness of Sergio's mouth still lingering on his cheek, Fernando relaxes his jaw and straightens his back once more. Lifting his head, he inhales deeply, his breath no longer shuddering, but open and hungry. As the team makes its way forward out of the tunnel and into the blistering, overwhelming noise and white light of the stadium, Fernando embraces the moment.
Because, if he doesn't, the moments to follow would be worth less. The quiet tension of expectation makes the expected so much bigger, and better, and something worth being nervous for. Sergio so fluidly assuring them all that nerves were okay, eases the ache in Fernando's body and reminds him, as Sergio has done time and time before, that fear is merely excitement turned conscientious, and nothing as sinister as palpitating heartbeats and shaking hands try to evoke.
Sergio, his youthful optimism and unashamed enthusiasm, believes that they can be gods. And if Sergio believes it, Fernando believes it. So he walks out with his head held high, his mouth closed and his stare hard in steely determination, Sergio walking in front of him, guiding him, with him.
He is ready.