(no subject)
title: didn't we almost have it all?
characters: fernando torres/sergio ramos, implied david villa/david silva. xabi alonso, olalla dominguez.
rating: r, but not really.
disclaimer: i'm lying.
word count: 1907.
notes: a story about unrequited love. sort of. kind of. this was really hard for me to write! haha. ps, title from whitney houston, quote at the beginning from like. tumblr. or something. hahahaha.
You want to play the game? It’s like this:
You play around. You have fun. You share your secrets. You tell stories. You cry on each other’s shoulders. You hold hands. You think about forever.
But, you do not fall in love.
Because the first one who does, loses.
i.
The light pours in from the windows when Sergio opens his eyes. He squints in the light and thinks he sees a figure at the head of his bed. He startles a bit and opens his eyes wider to only realize he’s imagined it; it was only a shadow in the light.
He grunts and shifts in bed, looks around him. He’s not exactly used to sleeping alone, but he sure as hell is used to waking up alone.
He makes his way to the bathroom and the sound of his feet padding on the cold tile of the floor echoes loudly in his ears. He splashes some water on his face and stares into the mirror for a bit. “I hate you,” he says quietly before brushing his teeth.
It’s cold that morning, as he walks around Madrid. He’s not sure what he’s looking for but he finds it at a café. “When’d you leave last night?”
Fernando shrugs and scratches his back, pays for his coffee. “I don’t know, sometime after you fell asleep.”
“Why?”
Fernando looks at him like he’s an idiot.
And Sergio knows why he left, so maybe he is an idiot for even asking.
ii.
Sergio’s not sure why he does it, why he lets Fernando into his bed. He knows he’s married, has a daughter, he knows that they will never be more than a fuck in Sergio’s bed (always Sergio’s). The truth is, they became friends when they were young, and when you’re young, you’re supposed to be reckless and naïve and open to the whole fucking world. Back then, sleeping together might have led to something more - something different. They could’ve been something, could’ve fallen in love. But as it is, when they were young, they were protected and realistic and aged far more than their years. It wasn’t until after Fernando had a daughter that he ended up in Sergio’s bed, and by then, a future was nearly impossible. Maybe in another lifetime, Sergio thinks to himself some nights. Maybe we’ll be reborn as normal people, and. And life would be okay, he thinks.
He’s not sure why he continues to do it, why he continues to let Fernando into his bed. He thinks he can’t stop it. Not now, anyway. And how could anyone want to? They must not be masochistic enough. Not insane enough.
Fernando comes over again that night. He doesn’t look at Sergio when he fucks him, but kisses his shoulder when he feels Sergio shudder beneath him. Sergio has to bite his lip to not say Fernando’s name when he comes.
They lay there for a while, not really speaking until Fernando’s phone starts to ring. He jolts up and picks it up, murmurs quietly into the phone. He starts to pull on his clothes and Sergio feels a little piece of his chest start to ache. Fernando turns to him, “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”
Sergio asks, “Was that Olalla?”
“Yeah,” Fernando’s answer is clipped.
“Okay,” Sergio says, a smile plastered on his face. “I’m not sure I’ll be around tomorrow though, so-”
Fernando raises an eyebrow. “Where will you be?”
“Does it really matter?” Sergio snaps at him. He sighs. “Just go, already, Nando. Your wife is waiting.”
Fernando looks puzzled and then amused momentarily and pets Sergio’s head, leans down and kisses the top of it. Sergio closes his eyes and Fernando watches him for a bit. “Fine, call me,” he says before he turns and leaves.
Sergio whispers to no one in particular, “Why don’t you ever call me instead?”
He looks around his now-empty room and starts to feel the rest of his chest start to ache as well.
iii.
Sergio receives a call around 5 pm. He’s lying in his bed with his pajamas, partially wishing he hadn’t lied to Fernando just so he won’t have to be alone. He lunges for his phone when he gets the call, and even though he knows the chances of it being Fernando are slim to none, he can’t help but hope.
(That’s what’s wrong with the human heart, it never fails from hoping.
That’s why it is so breakable, more so than any other organ of the body. Nothing is capable of breaking like the human heart can.)
It’s David Silva.
“Hello?” He asks quizzically. He loves the Canarian, but it’s not often Silva calls Sergio on random summer days.
“Sergio, hey,” Silva says a little breathlessly. “How are you?”
“Great, perfect,” Sergio lies.
“I’m glad,” Silva says. “Listen, I was just - I was just wondering about something.”
Sergio doesn’t reply for a bit, expecting Silva to continue, but when he doesn’t, he supplies, “Oh?”
Silva clears his throat. His voice is quiet. “Is it hard? Relationships from England to Spain?”
“How am I supposed to know?”
“Because, well. You and Fernando?” Silva sounds genuinely confused.
“We’re not,” Sergio starts and stops. He starts again, “We don’t have a relationship, Silva.”
Silva almost snorts at that. “Sergio, I see you-”
“Silva, it really isn’t what you think,” he replies softly. His voice sounds tired and maybe that’s what tips Silva.
“Oh.” Silva says, “I thought,” but isn’t sure how to finish it.
Sergio can feel the tension in the air. He sighs, decides to offer what advice he can give. “Well, does he love you?”
“Yes. I mean,” Silva stammers. “I think so.”
“Then you’ll be fine,” Sergio says. He pauses. “It’s only a problem when he doesn’t love you back.”
iv.
Xabi is back in Madrid now, he goes over to Sergio’s to bide down the days until training starts again. “How are you?”
Sergio can’t remember the last time he answered that honestly. He says, “Fine,” but maybe Xabi has grown to know him better than that so he frowns.
He chats away at first; talks of San Sebastián, his kids, Nagore, his parents. Sergio laughs and replies with news of Seville, his family, and makes up a lame excuse as to why he came back to Madrid so early. Xabi looks at him for a long time. The concern on his face is evident. “What’s going on, Sergio?”
Sergio sighs. “It’s just,” he starts. It’s just that there’s this game we play, Fernando and I. We look at each other without really seeing, we talk to each other without really speaking - we sleep together without really sleeping. It’s this cycle, we go through, just for the hell of it. There are no rules, except for one: no falling in love.
I broke the rule, he wants to say.
He says, “It’s a long story, Xabi.”
“I have time,” he replies with a shrug.
Sergio doesn’t answer, simply purses his lips in frustration and stares at the floor.
v.
He doesn’t find out from Fernando, he finds out from Olalla. He sees her at the groceries and his eyes widen when he sees her baby bump. She smiles. “Yeah, pregnant again,” she says as a way of explanation.
Sergio forces a laugh. “Wow, congratulations! I’m so happy for you!” He’s not, really. But what else is he supposed to say to a mother-to-be?
“Thank you, Sergio,” she beams.
“Boy or girl?” He asks, even though he doesn’t want to know.
“Boy.”
Sergio’s heart surges, grows, and it has already made room for El Niño’s niño.
Fernando doesn’t end up calling Sergio, but comes over a few days later. “Knew you’d be home.”
Sergio refuses to look at him, walks around his place like he’s dead. Fernando touches his arm, a slight frown on his face, and Sergio retracts his arm. He looks at him wearily. Fernando doesn’t say anything but looks at him with wondering eyes. Sergio asks, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
Something flashes in Sergio’s eyes. He snaps, “That Olalla’s pregnant again.”
A quiet “oh” escapes Fernando’s lips and he drops his eyes, almost apologetically.
“That it’s a boy,” Sergio continues, and Fernando glances up at him then, can’t help the small smile fixed on his face.
“Can you believe it’s a boy?” Fernando looks so damn proud that Sergio has to smile, rolling his eyes a little.
“You better fucking name him Sergio.”
vi.
They fuck that night and it’s the same but it’s different because Sergio says, “Don’t leave tonight,” afterwards.
Fernando looks surprised at first, and maybe possibly worried, but only nods. He slips his arm around Sergio’s bare shoulders, and Sergio presses his fingers to Fernando’s tattoos. He traces them all, until he gets to Olalla’s. He traces his name over it, pretends it’s his name inked into Fernando’s skin. He wonders if Fernando can feel it, can feel Sergio tracing a name that’s not really there, that will never really be there.
He knows he has when Fernando stills his hand with his own, intertwines their fingers. He turns to stare down at Sergio, and his eyes are reproachful, worried. They’re saying: you weren’t supposed to fall. They’re saying: nothing will ever come out of this, you know. I’m married, we’re footballers. They’re saying: maybe in another life, I would’ve wanted it too. Maybe.
They’re saying: you broke the rule.
Sergio laughs a little and asks, “What?”
“Nothing,” Fernando shakes his head. He turns to look at the photos on Sergio’s wall. There is one of the Euros, one of the World cup. “We have it all, don’t we?”
“Almost,” Sergio replies and Fernando looks at him. I don’t really have you, Sergio wants to say.
Later, when Fernando thinks Sergio is sound asleep, he extracts his arm away and pulls on his pants. Sergio can hear him rummaging for his shirt; can hear him curse when he can’t find it. Fernando goes into Sergio’s closet and picks one out, figures Sergio won’t mind. Sergio keeps his eyes shut as Fernando picks up his keys from the nightstand; as Fernando leans down to place a kiss at the top of Sergio’s head. It feels like the last time, like the end of life as they know it. It feels like a goodbye.
Fernando leaves.
Sergio opens his eyes a little. The room is dark and cold and quiet. He looks around and realizes that there are no traces of Fernando left, that he might as well not have ever been there.
That’s how life is, of course. You can give someone all the love in the world, and they’ll still love another more. There’ll always be someone else, someone better. A girl he grew up with, perhaps. The mother of his daughter, perhaps.
Sergio gets up to use the bathroom. He splashes water on his face and stares at himself in the mirror for a long time. “I hate you, you idiot,” he mutters and feels his eyes start to sting. He shakes his head before he walks back out to his bedroom. He stops when he finds Fernando’s shirt strewn across a lamp, wonders how Fernando could have possibly not seen it. Thinks maybe Fernando left it on purpose. Maybe. He holds it in his hands as he lies back in bed, and presses it to his face. “I love you,” he murmurs quietly and pretends it’s Fernando. Wishes he could say it in person, when Fernando can really hear him. Maybe in another life, he thinks.
He falls asleep with it against his face, his arm wrapped around Fernando’s pillow.
And he can still smell him, Fernando, on his skin the next morning.
characters: fernando torres/sergio ramos, implied david villa/david silva. xabi alonso, olalla dominguez.
rating: r, but not really.
disclaimer: i'm lying.
word count: 1907.
notes: a story about unrequited love. sort of. kind of. this was really hard for me to write! haha. ps, title from whitney houston, quote at the beginning from like. tumblr. or something. hahahaha.
You want to play the game? It’s like this:
You play around. You have fun. You share your secrets. You tell stories. You cry on each other’s shoulders. You hold hands. You think about forever.
But, you do not fall in love.
Because the first one who does, loses.
i.
The light pours in from the windows when Sergio opens his eyes. He squints in the light and thinks he sees a figure at the head of his bed. He startles a bit and opens his eyes wider to only realize he’s imagined it; it was only a shadow in the light.
He grunts and shifts in bed, looks around him. He’s not exactly used to sleeping alone, but he sure as hell is used to waking up alone.
He makes his way to the bathroom and the sound of his feet padding on the cold tile of the floor echoes loudly in his ears. He splashes some water on his face and stares into the mirror for a bit. “I hate you,” he says quietly before brushing his teeth.
It’s cold that morning, as he walks around Madrid. He’s not sure what he’s looking for but he finds it at a café. “When’d you leave last night?”
Fernando shrugs and scratches his back, pays for his coffee. “I don’t know, sometime after you fell asleep.”
“Why?”
Fernando looks at him like he’s an idiot.
And Sergio knows why he left, so maybe he is an idiot for even asking.
ii.
Sergio’s not sure why he does it, why he lets Fernando into his bed. He knows he’s married, has a daughter, he knows that they will never be more than a fuck in Sergio’s bed (always Sergio’s). The truth is, they became friends when they were young, and when you’re young, you’re supposed to be reckless and naïve and open to the whole fucking world. Back then, sleeping together might have led to something more - something different. They could’ve been something, could’ve fallen in love. But as it is, when they were young, they were protected and realistic and aged far more than their years. It wasn’t until after Fernando had a daughter that he ended up in Sergio’s bed, and by then, a future was nearly impossible. Maybe in another lifetime, Sergio thinks to himself some nights. Maybe we’ll be reborn as normal people, and. And life would be okay, he thinks.
He’s not sure why he continues to do it, why he continues to let Fernando into his bed. He thinks he can’t stop it. Not now, anyway. And how could anyone want to? They must not be masochistic enough. Not insane enough.
Fernando comes over again that night. He doesn’t look at Sergio when he fucks him, but kisses his shoulder when he feels Sergio shudder beneath him. Sergio has to bite his lip to not say Fernando’s name when he comes.
They lay there for a while, not really speaking until Fernando’s phone starts to ring. He jolts up and picks it up, murmurs quietly into the phone. He starts to pull on his clothes and Sergio feels a little piece of his chest start to ache. Fernando turns to him, “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”
Sergio asks, “Was that Olalla?”
“Yeah,” Fernando’s answer is clipped.
“Okay,” Sergio says, a smile plastered on his face. “I’m not sure I’ll be around tomorrow though, so-”
Fernando raises an eyebrow. “Where will you be?”
“Does it really matter?” Sergio snaps at him. He sighs. “Just go, already, Nando. Your wife is waiting.”
Fernando looks puzzled and then amused momentarily and pets Sergio’s head, leans down and kisses the top of it. Sergio closes his eyes and Fernando watches him for a bit. “Fine, call me,” he says before he turns and leaves.
Sergio whispers to no one in particular, “Why don’t you ever call me instead?”
He looks around his now-empty room and starts to feel the rest of his chest start to ache as well.
iii.
Sergio receives a call around 5 pm. He’s lying in his bed with his pajamas, partially wishing he hadn’t lied to Fernando just so he won’t have to be alone. He lunges for his phone when he gets the call, and even though he knows the chances of it being Fernando are slim to none, he can’t help but hope.
(That’s what’s wrong with the human heart, it never fails from hoping.
That’s why it is so breakable, more so than any other organ of the body. Nothing is capable of breaking like the human heart can.)
It’s David Silva.
“Hello?” He asks quizzically. He loves the Canarian, but it’s not often Silva calls Sergio on random summer days.
“Sergio, hey,” Silva says a little breathlessly. “How are you?”
“Great, perfect,” Sergio lies.
“I’m glad,” Silva says. “Listen, I was just - I was just wondering about something.”
Sergio doesn’t reply for a bit, expecting Silva to continue, but when he doesn’t, he supplies, “Oh?”
Silva clears his throat. His voice is quiet. “Is it hard? Relationships from England to Spain?”
“How am I supposed to know?”
“Because, well. You and Fernando?” Silva sounds genuinely confused.
“We’re not,” Sergio starts and stops. He starts again, “We don’t have a relationship, Silva.”
Silva almost snorts at that. “Sergio, I see you-”
“Silva, it really isn’t what you think,” he replies softly. His voice sounds tired and maybe that’s what tips Silva.
“Oh.” Silva says, “I thought,” but isn’t sure how to finish it.
Sergio can feel the tension in the air. He sighs, decides to offer what advice he can give. “Well, does he love you?”
“Yes. I mean,” Silva stammers. “I think so.”
“Then you’ll be fine,” Sergio says. He pauses. “It’s only a problem when he doesn’t love you back.”
iv.
Xabi is back in Madrid now, he goes over to Sergio’s to bide down the days until training starts again. “How are you?”
Sergio can’t remember the last time he answered that honestly. He says, “Fine,” but maybe Xabi has grown to know him better than that so he frowns.
He chats away at first; talks of San Sebastián, his kids, Nagore, his parents. Sergio laughs and replies with news of Seville, his family, and makes up a lame excuse as to why he came back to Madrid so early. Xabi looks at him for a long time. The concern on his face is evident. “What’s going on, Sergio?”
Sergio sighs. “It’s just,” he starts. It’s just that there’s this game we play, Fernando and I. We look at each other without really seeing, we talk to each other without really speaking - we sleep together without really sleeping. It’s this cycle, we go through, just for the hell of it. There are no rules, except for one: no falling in love.
I broke the rule, he wants to say.
He says, “It’s a long story, Xabi.”
“I have time,” he replies with a shrug.
Sergio doesn’t answer, simply purses his lips in frustration and stares at the floor.
v.
He doesn’t find out from Fernando, he finds out from Olalla. He sees her at the groceries and his eyes widen when he sees her baby bump. She smiles. “Yeah, pregnant again,” she says as a way of explanation.
Sergio forces a laugh. “Wow, congratulations! I’m so happy for you!” He’s not, really. But what else is he supposed to say to a mother-to-be?
“Thank you, Sergio,” she beams.
“Boy or girl?” He asks, even though he doesn’t want to know.
“Boy.”
Sergio’s heart surges, grows, and it has already made room for El Niño’s niño.
Fernando doesn’t end up calling Sergio, but comes over a few days later. “Knew you’d be home.”
Sergio refuses to look at him, walks around his place like he’s dead. Fernando touches his arm, a slight frown on his face, and Sergio retracts his arm. He looks at him wearily. Fernando doesn’t say anything but looks at him with wondering eyes. Sergio asks, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
Something flashes in Sergio’s eyes. He snaps, “That Olalla’s pregnant again.”
A quiet “oh” escapes Fernando’s lips and he drops his eyes, almost apologetically.
“That it’s a boy,” Sergio continues, and Fernando glances up at him then, can’t help the small smile fixed on his face.
“Can you believe it’s a boy?” Fernando looks so damn proud that Sergio has to smile, rolling his eyes a little.
“You better fucking name him Sergio.”
vi.
They fuck that night and it’s the same but it’s different because Sergio says, “Don’t leave tonight,” afterwards.
Fernando looks surprised at first, and maybe possibly worried, but only nods. He slips his arm around Sergio’s bare shoulders, and Sergio presses his fingers to Fernando’s tattoos. He traces them all, until he gets to Olalla’s. He traces his name over it, pretends it’s his name inked into Fernando’s skin. He wonders if Fernando can feel it, can feel Sergio tracing a name that’s not really there, that will never really be there.
He knows he has when Fernando stills his hand with his own, intertwines their fingers. He turns to stare down at Sergio, and his eyes are reproachful, worried. They’re saying: you weren’t supposed to fall. They’re saying: nothing will ever come out of this, you know. I’m married, we’re footballers. They’re saying: maybe in another life, I would’ve wanted it too. Maybe.
They’re saying: you broke the rule.
Sergio laughs a little and asks, “What?”
“Nothing,” Fernando shakes his head. He turns to look at the photos on Sergio’s wall. There is one of the Euros, one of the World cup. “We have it all, don’t we?”
“Almost,” Sergio replies and Fernando looks at him. I don’t really have you, Sergio wants to say.
Later, when Fernando thinks Sergio is sound asleep, he extracts his arm away and pulls on his pants. Sergio can hear him rummaging for his shirt; can hear him curse when he can’t find it. Fernando goes into Sergio’s closet and picks one out, figures Sergio won’t mind. Sergio keeps his eyes shut as Fernando picks up his keys from the nightstand; as Fernando leans down to place a kiss at the top of Sergio’s head. It feels like the last time, like the end of life as they know it. It feels like a goodbye.
Fernando leaves.
Sergio opens his eyes a little. The room is dark and cold and quiet. He looks around and realizes that there are no traces of Fernando left, that he might as well not have ever been there.
That’s how life is, of course. You can give someone all the love in the world, and they’ll still love another more. There’ll always be someone else, someone better. A girl he grew up with, perhaps. The mother of his daughter, perhaps.
Sergio gets up to use the bathroom. He splashes water on his face and stares at himself in the mirror for a long time. “I hate you, you idiot,” he mutters and feels his eyes start to sting. He shakes his head before he walks back out to his bedroom. He stops when he finds Fernando’s shirt strewn across a lamp, wonders how Fernando could have possibly not seen it. Thinks maybe Fernando left it on purpose. Maybe. He holds it in his hands as he lies back in bed, and presses it to his face. “I love you,” he murmurs quietly and pretends it’s Fernando. Wishes he could say it in person, when Fernando can really hear him. Maybe in another life, he thinks.
He falls asleep with it against his face, his arm wrapped around Fernando’s pillow.
And he can still smell him, Fernando, on his skin the next morning.