(no subject)
title: when nothing feels the same anymore.
characters: fernando torres/sergio ramos, olalla dominguez, jose antonio reyes, iker casillas, xabi alonso, alvaro arbeloa, kun aguero, diego forlan, alvaro morata, leo torres, nora torres.
rating: pg.
disclaimer: i'm lying.
word count: 6,098.
notes: slightly au, set in the future. fernando is 32 and has transferred back to atletico. i want to preface by saying that this is really bad. hahahaha. i just felt like writing. oops. THIS IS UNBETA'D. someone asked me to write sernando, and, well. YEP.
"You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you. And you feel like you’ve done something terrible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you’re tired. You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you didn’t even have a name for."
- Richard Siken
The air feels warmer than it used to, somehow, and Fernando thinks he might be dehydrated about halfway through training. It bothers him, just like pre-season always does. Just like Diego’s recent haircut does. Just like everything lately does.
He ignores the beads of sweat that are forming on his forehead, daring to turn to puddles. He concocts images of him drowning in a pool of sweat, the tragic tale all over the headlines across the world: Footballer Suffocates in His Own Sweat. Imagine that. He can just see Wayne Rooney, Cristiano Ronaldo, Lionel Messi laughing hysterically at it, like, Fernando Torres can’t even finish a training session without dying, in his own country at that.
He shakes his head. This is stupid. He’s overreacting and he knows it, Madrid isn’t even that hot. He grew up here, this is his city after all. He turns and Diego is looking at him oddly. “What?” he barks and Diego turns away, embarrassed.
“Are you used to being in Madrid for good yet?” It’s Kun. They used to be close, back then, but now Fernando can barely look him in the eye. He’s not sure why.
“Not entirely,” he admits; his face a mixture of a grimace and a smile. Which is probably how he could describe how he’s been feeling ever since he’s come back.
Reyes pulls Fernando’s arm and says, “Let’s get a drink of water.” And Fernando’s grateful for it, because he just isn’t up for awkward conversation with someone he used to consider a friend.
He gets home and he’s tired. A deep sort of tired that starts in his bones and makes its way to settle all over his body - his legs, arms, neck. He likes to think that he hasn’t felt this tired in a while, but really it has been happening a lot this past year. The up-beat tempo of the Prem was killing him, and he thinks that knee surgery he had a few years back was what did it. He hadn’t cared then what had to be done as long as he got to go to the World Cup. They had told him it would lead to less years of playing in the long run, but he hadn’t given a shit back then. Now, he looks down at his knee and has to look away. He still thinks it’s worth it, even with all of the troubles it has led him to.
He turns on his phone for the first time that day. He has 3 texts. The first two are from De Gea and Kun, respectively, asking if he wants to hang out that night. He scrolls to the last one, it’s from Xabi: Hang out tonight at Iker’s. You in?
He texts back: yup, and feels only mildly bad that he’d rather hang out with the enemies than his own teammates. It’s hard though, playing with the team he once left behind. It’s like he’s playing with his past, and he’s just not sure he can handle it.
“How’s Madrid treating you?” Álvaro’s eyes are gleaming, like the way Madrid has been ‘treating’ him is some sort of secret. Some plan plotted by Madridistas that are trying to bring him down.
“Same as Madrid has always treated me,” he lies coolly.
Sergio smirks. “It was hard for these guys to get used to it at first,” he jerks his thumb towards Xabi and Álvaro. “They could probably help you out, if you need it.”
And Fernando glares. “I was born here, I don’t think I need help getting reacquainted with the city.”
Sergio raises one eyebrow (his left one), and says, “Well, that’s good then,” but Fernando knows that he knows. He can tell by the look in his eyes, the odd way he’s staring at Fernando like he’s some foreigner. Fernando wants to yell, you’re the foreigner. You’re not even a fucking Madrileño.
He doesn’t say anything, simply glares into his beer.
The truth is, Fernando doesn’t remember how to live in Madrid.
Madrid. This is his city. When he was in England, all he would do was miss Madrid, and now that he’s here - now that he’s here. He just. Misses England. It’s weird, to be back in the city of his past, his childhood. He can’t remember what he loved so much about his favorite places, what made the city so special. He just, well, can’t.
And the worst part is: the city loves him. It’s as if he never left. He’s captain of Atlético again - the moment he re-signed with them, it was presented to him like he was their savior all over again. It’s just. He feels bad about it, because he doesn’t deserve it, because he hasn’t played for these colors in years.
And worst of all-
he doesn’t remember how to live in Madrid anymore, how to love living here. It scares him a little, how much he has forgotten about it - about the sting of the sun’s rays, the music that flows out of windows adjacent to the streets. It was so quiet in England, just like how Fernando likes it. Just like Fernando, for that matter. He fit in.
In Madrid, he does feel like a foreigner, just as Sergio saw him as one. He feels too quiet for a city that rarely sleeps (it may not be New York City, but he visited there last summer and he thinks that Madrid is pretty damn close).
Reyes says, “It was hard for me at first, to adjust back to Spain after being in London for so long.”
Fernando wants to roll his eyes. He wants to say, I’m different than you. He wants to say, you don’t understand how much I loved this city - how much I loved this team, and now I don’t know how to. I can’t - I can’t. It’s different for me. He says, “I’ve been doing fine,” but they both know it’s a lie.
“It’s supposed to be hard at first, Fernando, you don’t have to-”
And Fernando says, “I’m not,” before jogging over to Kun, asking him to warm up with him.
He goes out for drinks with some of the guys. He’s not sure how they convinced him, but they have. He’s sitting next to Kun when he sees Sergio beam as he walks towards him. Great, he thinks. This is embarrassing, he thinks.
“What are you doing here?” Sergio asks, like it’s absolutely absurd for Fernando to be out - and, you know, having fun.
Fernando bristles, pulls his beer to his lips before mumbling, “Drinking. You?”
Sergio raises an eyebrow. He nods at Diego, shakes hands with Reyes amiably. “Hey, bro,” he says to him and Fernando mulls over whether or not he’s angry that he didn’t answer his question. But then Sergio turns to him again and holds up his own drink, “Drinking,” with a smirk. He pointedly doesn’t glance at Fernando’s right, where Kun is sitting.
He starts hanging out with the Madridistas a lot more, especially Sergio. Which is weird because it feels exactly like old times, almost exactly. He got oddly close with the Sevillan back then as well, up to the point where he had his phone number memorized (Fernando never memorizes phone numbers, that’s what cell phones are for). A day didn’t go by where they wouldn’t hang out, if they were both in Madrid. It was always “let’s go shopping” or to the beach or to the movies or “just come over, we’ll play some FIFA.” He remembers it bothered him at first, how much he had liked the company of the boy in white.
It still bothers him, if he’s quite honest. But that’s that, and they’re hanging out again - as if the years in between never happened, as if they hadn’t drifted apart when he was in England - as easily as it had happened the first time around.
They were never best friends. They had always been good friends, but anyone could see that Sergio has a number of good friends, so it wasn’t like he missed Fernando when he left. He had others to take his place and Fernando never begrudged him for it.
They were never best friends. And because Sergio didn't care, Fernando decided that he hadn't either.
He is at home with the kids when Sergio comes over. The season hasn’t started yet, but it will in a few days. He opens the door, “What’s up?”
Sergio has a 6-pack of beer and a smirk. “I’m here to fuck you up so you lose your first game of the season,” a pause. “It’s a mental tactic.”
Fernando shoots him a look, gestures to lower down his voice. “Watch your language,” he says, pointing back into the room.
“Shit,” he starts, “I mean, er, dang it.” He looks apologetic and hands Fernando the beers. “Guess we can’t use these then, eh?”
Fernando snorts, is about to say, “Nope, guess we can’t,” when Sergio moves past him and into the house. He scoops up Fernando’s kids in one swift movement, smothering them with kisses as if they were his own. Fernando smiles. He says, “Stop trying to steal my kids.”
Sergio laughs. “You know they love me more.”
Fernando punches his arm. It has been hard for the kids, the move back to Spain. They had grown up English for their entire lives, and now they’re back in the country of their (well, Nora’s) birth. Fernando wishes he had spoken more Spanish with them when they were younger, but everyone had said to stick to English so they’d learn - and, well. Now they speak Spanish with English accents and he knows it pains Sergio, he saw it in the disappointed look he had given Fernando when he first heard them - like he was saying, how could your kids be more English than Spanish? How could you let this happen?
I don’t know, Fernando had wanted to say. Probably the way I turned more English than Spanish as well.
He tells Sergio once. He blurts it out, without really thinking about it.
Sergio stares at him for a long time. “You don’t know how to live here anymore? But, Fer,” he starts. His eyebrows furrow and he rubs his thumb against the length of his pants. Back and forth, over and over. Thinking. “It’s easy - I mean, to learn.”
“Easier said than done,” he replies and brings his beer to his lips. “I’ve been here months and I still can’t - I still forget to use Spanish in the grocery stores.”
Sergio takes out Fernando’s kids one day. Fernando stays at home and closes his eyes, thinks that this is the first time all year that he’s felt comfortable - in Madrid. He’s grateful - for Sergio, for Sergio taking the kids for the day, for Sergio not asking about where Olalla is, for Sergio not asking why the kids aren’t there on most days, for Sergio being Sergio.
He wakes up when he hears noises outside, in the backyard. He gets up, stretches his arms way overhead before moving to the window. There, in the backyard, is Sergio. He is sitting in the grass and laughing, Nora and Leo running around him in circles. Sergio surges forward, pulls Leo into his arms and Leo shrieks. Fernando guesses that they’re playing some sort of odd form of a game of tag. Sergio presses a kiss to Leo’s cheek and Fernando - Fernando, he feels - he feels something deep behind his ribcage give way.
He goes out to them. He raises an eyebrow at Sergio when Sergio finally looks up at him. “Why are you on the ground?”
Sergio looks up at him, his eyes crinkle into a smile that his lips aren’t giving way to. “I’m a plant that eats up little kids.” When Fernando’s eyebrow shoots up higher, Sergio lets his smirk go. “It’s called the ‘Plant That Eats Children’ game.”
Fernando snorts. Leo hugs his leg for a moment before running back into the house. Nora sits in Sergio’s lap. Fernando looks at her before glancing back at Sergio’s face. “You’re so lazy.”
Sergio covers Nora’s ears. He mouths, “Fuck you,” and Fernando laughs at that, shaking his head a little before turning and walking into the house.
They’re playing Real Madrid tomorrow, and Fernando had forgotten how hard it is to play against Sergio. Not in that he’s a good footballer, but more in that he’s a good friend. Sergio texts him before: voy a romperte la cara. ;-)
And Fernando - he can’t take the jokes. He doesn’t care if that’s just it - a joke. It hits deeper for him, because most likely, that is what will happen and he hates it. He hates it. He doesn’t reply back and Sergio texts him a few hours later: solo bromeando hombre. bss.
Fernando wants to reply back with something like, fuck you, but knows Sergio knows enough English to know what that actually means.
Before the match, in the tunnel, Sergio hugs him. Fernando’s suddenly ashamed - to even be associated with a Merengue. He barely responds to the hug, doesn’t even look him in the eyes. He can tell that Sergio is frowning without even looking at him.
All he can think as they enter the Bernabéu is, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you. He’s not sure if he’s directing it at the crowd or the stadium or the team or Sergio.
He ends up scoring, right past Sergio fucking Ramos and he feels so relieved when he sees the angry look on Sergio’s face. Yeah, he wants to say, this is football, not something we can bond over and kid around about.
He feels stupid when minutes later, after Sergio tackles him, Sergio rubs his head in apology, like he’s trying to make a statement. Like he’s trying to say, there’s more to life than just a rivalry.
Real Madrid end up scoring in the last minute. 1-1.
Fernando trades shirts with Morata, just because he doesn’t want to with Sergio.
“I thought we’d trade shirts,” Sergio says. He’s waiting outside for Fernando. Why is he waiting outside for Fernando?
“Yeah, well, I wanted Morata’s.”
Sergio nods. “Yeah. I would too.” He nudges Fernando’s arm as they walk along, grinning a little.
Fernando doesn’t respond back. He doesn’t even smile. Sergio frowns. He touches his arm and Fernando recoils. Sergio’s face hardens, he says, “Don’t be such a fucking dick, Fernando.”
“I’m not.”
“Well you’re acting like an asshole. What? Because you drew a match?” He spits out, “Get over it.”
“You wouldn’t understand, you’re a Merengue.”
The way he says it - it’s like it’s venom. Sergio feels taken aback. He looks it, too. “I can’t believe you.”
Fernando starts to walk. He just wants to get away as soon as possible, as fast as possible. He hears Sergio call out behind him, “You’re a wuss, Torres! Football isn’t your entire life, you can’t -” Fernando doesn’t hear the rest, because Sergio’s not shouting anymore. But what he says is, “You can’t let it be.”
They don’t talk for a few days. Fernando thinks Sergio will text him or something, but he doesn’t. He has a hard time concentrating during training. Kun actually gets in his face about it, says, “Get your head in the game, Torres,” and Fernando wants to throttle him.
He wants to say, this is my team. He leaves training early, just storms out and he knows what they think of him. He knows. The one who left. The one who left and failed.
He calls Olalla. “I miss you.”
She says, “Fernando,” and sighs.
He breathes slowly. “No, no,” he gives a shake of his head, as if she can see. “I miss you and I can’t do this, Olalla. I really can’t.”
She doesn’t say anything for a while, and then, “I’ll bring the kids around tomorrow.”
His voice is soft. “Yeah, that’d be nice,” before they say their goodbyes.
He stares at his phone for a moment before going to his contacts and scrolling through the list. He stops at Sergio’s name.
Sergio opens the door after one knock. He leans against it, tilts his head ever so slightly and raises an eyebrow.
Okay, so maybe Fernando should have actually called.
Fernando says, “I wanted to talk.”
Sergio doesn’t budge. “Only if you tell me what the hell is wrong with you.”
Fernando pushes past him, mutters an “okay” over his shoulder as he goes. Sergio offers him a beer. Fernando takes it but doesn’t drink, just holds it in his hands. Finally, he says, voice quiet, “You don’t know how it feels.”
“Right. Because I’m a Merengue, right? Because I play for Real Madrid and you’re such a fucking martyr, playing for Atlético, right?” His voice is sharp. Angry. Annoyed.
“No,” Fernando starts. “You just - you don’t know how it feels to have lost it all.”
Sergio’s face falls at that. He doesn’t say anything, but puts his palm on Fernando’s leg, squeezes. Fernando says, “You have everything. I - I lost it before I even got it.”
Sergio says, “I don’t have everything, Fer. You’re the one who has the wife, the kids. I just have football. That’s all I have.” His voice softens. “I gave up everything for football and where has it got me? I’m almost 30 years old, and. And.”
“Olalla left me.” He looks at him now. “I have nothing left. I get the kids every other weekend.”
Sergio doesn’t say anything. Fernando assumed he knew, but judging by his reaction, he didn’t. Sergio says, “I’m sorry.”
Fernando looks away. After a few moments, he says, “You know, I used to dream of the Champions League, of lifting that European Cup. And now - now - I just want to lift the Copa del Rey. I just want, I want.”
He stops. Sergio touches his face. “You will - you’ll get it, you will.”
They’re at Iker’s. Iker makes jokes now, Fernando notes. He likes to smile now. Retirement looks good on him.
At one point in the night, he says, “You getting used to Madrid again yet?”
Fernando frowns. He glances at Sergio and he’s glaring at Iker.
On their way back to Fernando’s, Fernando says, “You told him, didn’t you?”
“What?” Sergio glances at him momentarily. He keeps his eyes on the road for the most part. When Fernando doesn’t answer, he glances at him again, reaches out to punch his arm lightly. “What?”
Fernando shrugs. “The Madrid thing. You told him.”
“I,” he starts. The corners of Sergio’s mouth turn downward. “It slipped out, I’m sorry.”
Fernando gets out of the car when they reach his place, says, “Thanks for the ride,” before walking briskly to his gate.
Sergio puts his car in park and comes out after him, reaching out for his arm. “Come on, Fer, I didn’t think it was that big of a deal. Anyone would feel like that after being away for so long.”
“Yeah, but not me, Sergio. I was born here - this is my city. This is my city.” He’s red. When Sergio reaches out for him again, he pulls his arm away. “That’s just so - so fucking embarrassing.”
“It’s not,” Sergio says. He puts a hand on Fernando’s neck, pulls him closer and says, “It’s not.”
Sergio kisses him then. When they pull back, they’re both flushed. Sergio tries searching his eyes but Fernando won’t meet them. Sergio says, “I’m sorry,” and Fernando isn’t sure for what.
Xabi throws him and Sergio a surprise birthday party on the 25th. It is in between both of theirs and ‘perfect’, Xabi says. He grins when they walk in, all wide-eyes and glee. Sergio knew already, he claims, but his face says otherwise.
Sergio is 30 now and Fernando is 32 and it’s just. He feels old. He feels old and he hates it. He hates that he’s forced to retire at 32 and he just wants to play - he wants to play football.
Sergio presses kisses to both his cheeks, says, “Happy birthday,” and Fernando feels himself heat up.
“You too,” he smiles. “How do you feel being 30?”
“Eh,” he shrugs with a laugh.
“Don’t worry, it’ll get better.”
Sergio wrinkles his nose and laughs. “You’re lying.”
“Yeah, kind of.”
Sergio takes Fernando to his favorite restaurant in Madrid, once. Fernando laughs at him when he says he’s just trying to show him Madrid again, to reacquaint him with the city. When Kun said that same thing a few weeks earlier, he felt stung. When Sergio says it, he wants to smile.
“Maybe you could show me around more, sometime.”
Sergio looks at him. “Yeah, that would be really nice.”
Reyes sits with him during his massage. He offered and Fernando accepted, although he wasn’t sure why. They sit and they chat and finally, Reyes says, “You and Serg have been buddying it up, huh? Just like old times?”
Fernando turns his head to look at him. The masseuse looks particularly interested in Fernando’s left thigh, suddenly. Fernando’s knee starts to hurt. “Uh, yeah.”
“Shouldn’t he be the enemy?” He cracks a smile.
Fernando shrugs.
Fernando has his leg up, an ice pack on his knee, when Sergio walks in. “Hey, bro, I was thinking we’d -” He stops when he sees Fernando. “Shit, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he says. Earlier, in training, Kun’s foot struck the ball too late. It wasn’t Kun’s fault. It really wasn’t. When Fernando tries to explain, Sergio’s face hardens.
“That fucker.”
“Jesus, Sergio, it was an accident. You and Kun need to cool it.”
Sergio shrugs, walking backwards into the kitchens. “Fine, fine, I won’t go for his legs next match.” He smirks a little before he ducks in.
Fernando only wishes he’ll come back. It’s weird, how his chest feels lighter when he’s around. It’s weird and stupid and embarrassing.
Fernando, he’s at his best form in years, despite the leg. They just keep winning. They’re third in the league, but a whopping 7 points off Barcelona - who are second. Real Madrid are first.
But it really is the Copa del Rey that Fernando has his eyes on.
After they make it to the final, the team goes out and celebrates. He goes over to Sergio’s, happy and intoxicated, and kisses him before Sergio has a chance to let him in. Sergio doesn’t object as he pulls him inside and shuts the door behind them.
He blames himself when a week later, Real Madrid makes it to the final as well.
They don’t talk about it again. Just like how they don’t talk about the childhood they never had, the dreams they had and the ones that failed, the things that happened and didn’t happen.
Fernando sits in his father’s house; his parents are out back in the garden. He feels like a kid again. He feels 10 years younger, and he wishes - he wishes and regrets and thinks. It’s what his life is made up of, these days. Wishes and regrets and thoughts.
He looks at old magazines, old newspaper clippings. ‘Madrid’s Golden Boy’, they say. ‘The Future of the City’, they say. He feels a tug at his chest that is akin to nostalgia.
No one ever claimed him like Madrid did. The chance was taken away from Liverpool, London never had a reason to, but Madrid - Madrid.
But, Madrid.
Fernando goes over to Reyes’. When he takes a seat on his couch, he asks, “Do you ever miss England?”
Reyes turns to glance at him. He scratches his head. “Yeah, I guess.” Fernando looks at him and Reyes says, “I had a tough time in England. Sometimes I wish I could go back and fix it.”
“Sometimes I just wish I could go back,” he says, voice quiet.
“Really?” Reyes actually looks surprised. “But Madrid is your home, Niño.”
I know, he wants to say. I know.
“I’m retiring at the end of this season, you know.”
“What?” Sergio looks at him and his eyes are wide. Fernando shrugs, and Sergio says, “You’ve got at least a few more years in you.”
“I don’t,” Fernando says. He rubs his knee. Sergio stares at it and Fernando stares at him. “I should’ve stopped last year, with this leg.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” he replies honestly. “Maybe go back to England for a bit.”
Sergio tries not to look as surprised as he feels. He straightens his face. “But Madrid,” he stops.
They lose to Barcelona. It’s not the 6-1 that Fernando still feels somewhere deep in his chest, but it’s 2-1 and it’s still a loss. Reyes and Kun wait for him while he changes, and they all go out for drinks. After a beer or two, Fernando turns to Reyes. He says, “Remember when we were all friends back in the day?”
Reyes frowns, confusion etched in his face. “What?”
“You, me, and Sergio. Remember? A Rojiblanco and two Madridistas.” It’s not funny, but he’s laughing.
“Yeah,” Reyes smiles softly thinking about it. “Yeah.”
Fernando picks at the hem of his jeans. He glances from his beer to Reyes to Kun to Reyes to his beer to Reyes. “It didn’t feel wrong then.”
Reyes furrows his eyebrows, leans forward and pats his back. “It wasn’t - it isn’t, even now, Fer.”
“It feels like it is,” he mutters.
Kun interjects, “I don’t get why you’re even friends with that Ramos.”
Fernando glares into his drink when he really just wants to glare at Kun. “I don’t either,” he says, but doesn’t mean.
Sergio gets a drunken phonecall from Fernando, singing, “Hala Madrid, Hala Madrid, el equipo del gobierno, la verguenza del país.”
“Hello?” Sergio’s voice sounds groggy, agitated, not sure what’s going on.
Fernando says, “I fucking hate Madrid,” and Sergio sits up because now he realizes that he’s drunk.
“Where are you?”
Fernando shakes his head into the phone. “No, no, no, I hate Real Madrid.”
Sergio pulls on a sweater, holding the phone to his ear. “Fernando, where are you? Do you need me to come get you?”
“Actually, maybe I hate Madrid too - because everyone associates Madrid with Real Madrid - and I hate being associated with Real fucking Madrid - and that’s why I hate you - that’s why we can never really be friends-”
He doesn’t say, you make it easier to breathe in Madrid, though. You make it feel like home. He doesn’t say, at the beginning of the season, all I wanted was to go back to England and now I can’t imagine leaving again - I can’t imagine leaving you. He wants to say, I don’t know what to do anymore.
But he’s drunk and he never says what he wants to say even when he’s not, so.
Sergio frowns. He sits down on his bed again. “Fuck you, Torres,” is all he says before he hangs up.
Fernando hates the way his stomach drops, the way Sergio’s disappointment feels like a punch to the gut. He wants - he wants to hate him, he’s supposed to hate him.
He throws up near a dumpster.
Fernando drives around the city sometimes. He drives past Cibeles and can’t help but stare. It’s beautiful, it is, but the mark Real Madrid has left on the site has ruined it for him. He thinks of Sergio, who says Cibeles is his favorite part of the city. He feels so tiny against it, feels so - inferior. He’s only got two cups to his name, and Cibeles - Cibeles has more. Much more.
He drives to Neptuno as well. He comes here a lot - when his kids are with Olalla and Sergio isn’t around. When he’s alone, with nothing to do but think. He is - he is, this fountain is his. He closes his eyes and sees all the celebrations here he wished for when he was a kid, the ones he dreamt up of and never had.
They end up beating Real Madrid in the Copa del Rey final.
He and Sergio hadn’t spoken in two weeks. The day of the final - Fernando refuses to acknowledge him. Fernando nods at the few he knows from the team in the tunnel, but he won’t look at Sergio. Sergio hugs Reyes, says something to him that makes him laugh. He says rallying words to his team, and Fernando thinks he should too, but refuses to now that Sergio has. He knows he’s being immature.
They shake hands, finally, but only because they’re forced to. Sergio looks at him then, and Fernando sees something in the depth of his eyes. Sergio says, voice quiet as they walk back to their teams, “Good luck.” He reaches over and rubs the back of Fernando’s neck for a moment. It takes everything in Fernando’s will not to hug him.
It is 1-1 at halftime. Fernando, while he walks into the locker rooms, can only think about how this is his last chance. This is the last thing he can contribute to this team, to his childhood, to what he dreamed of since the first day he set foot in the Calderón when he was two. In the locker rooms, he tells the team of a dream he had of winning the Champions League - and how he’ll never get that, but he sure as hell can get this. “We have to win,” he says. “There is no other option.”
And maybe they all want to win it for him, for their captain, for the kid who lost his childhood before it began for this team.
As they wait for the whistle for the second half to blow, Sergio catches Fernando’s eye. He smiles, makes a gesture like, ‘I’m watching you’. Fernando rolls his eyes, smirking, and then Sergio gives him a look that Fernando can’t quite place. Fernando feels his chest grow tight.
Real Madrid have possession most of the second half. Fernando feels helpless with every time Adán saves a shot. In the last 10 minutes of the match, something happens that changes things. Sergio Ramos elbows Fernando Torres in the box. It’s stupid, so stupid, and earns him his second yellow. It’s so horribly tragic that it seems unreal, and everyone is saying, how in the world did Sergio Ramos do something so stupid? Fernando can’t quite believe it, but then - but then Sergio goes over to him to apologize and whispers, “Don’t fuck this up, Torres.”
Fernando stares at him in disbelief. Sergio goes to stand in the sidelines to watch, and Zidane can barely look at his player - can barely see past the stupidity he has shown. Sergio mutters an apology while Fernando lines himself up to take the shot.
At the end of the match, in the tunnel, Fernando doesn’t hold back from hugging him.
He calls Olalla. “Did they watch? Were they watching?”
His excitement is heard all the way in Olalla’s little house. “Yes,” she says, smiling. “Congratulations,” and, “Nice penalty,” before she hands the phone over to their son.
Fernando isn’t one for crying, but when his son says, “This is the first time I’ve seen you win something, dad,” he can’t help the tears that form.
When they arrive at Neptuno, cup in hand, he thinks, this is for you.
A few days later, he knocks on Sergio’s door. Sergio runs a hand over his face when he sees him.
Fernando says, in one breath, “Thank you.”
Sergio leans an arm on his door, sighs and looks somewhere to the left of Fernando. “I did it for you, you know.”
“I know,” Fernando says, and then, “Can I come in?”
Sergio lets him in. They sit on the couch and Fernando drums his fingers along the armrest. He turns to Sergio. “Why?”
“I’m old,” he says. “I’m old and I’ve won everything I’ve ever dreamt of winning, but I - I,” he shrugs. “I don’t have anything else in life and maybe I need to change that. Maybe that’s what I was trying to do.”
Fernando feels helpless. He feels like he’s falling and falling and falling and there’s nothing he can do about it, but he doesn’t want to - he doesn’t want to. “But,” he starts.
“We’re old now, Fer,” voice soft. “You’re retiring this year and I’ll retire in a few - it won’t matter - no one will care.”
Fernando looks away. And Sergio - he’s not stupid. He gets up and goes to the kitchen. Fernando follows him and says, quietly, “I’m sorry, it’s just - I have kids, Sergio.”
Sergio nods a little, and shrugs. He’s tired. He’s 30 years and he’s just so fucking tired of all of this. “Yeah.” He spits, “You have kids, and 10 years ago you had a career, and-”
“Stop,” Fernando says, voice soft. “It’s not my fault.”
“It is, Fer.”
There’s so much Fernando wants to say, but doesn’t know how. There’s so much he will never know how to say.
Fernando takes his kids out to lunch. He sees Sergio sitting at a table with a teammate of his. He can’t remember his name. Sergio offers Fernando a smile, it looks sad in all its sincerity. Fernando can’t stop looking at him. The kid smiles at him though, and says, “How are you liking Madrid these days, Torres?”
Sergio raises an eyebrow at him. Fernando looks straight at him when he says, “Madrid - Madrid is nice.”
“Did you have trouble settling in?”
“Yeah, but it came back to me eventually.” He smiles. “Madrid - it’s my home. So.”
Sergio smiles at that.
(Later, after Sergio has retired and returned to Seville, he will write Fernando a letter.
Querido Fernando, it will say.
It will say: How are you? How is Madrid? The kids? Is Olalla still with that doctor, because I’m still looking for someone. And she always did resemble you… ;-)
Haha, kidding. I bought a house for my parents right next door to mine. Who would’ve thought that I’d be single at 37, and living next door to my parents? What a sad life I live… :-)
You know, I’ve been thinking a lot these days. I’m finally back in Seville and I think I finally know what you were talking about, all those years ago. I think my problem is different though. You know how they say home is where the heart is?
I left mine in Madrid.
Hope you’re well.
There is a house in Seville whose doors are always open for you, it will say.
It will say: I miss you.
Later, Fernando will receive a visit from the Sevillan. They will chat and smile. Finally, Sergio will look down at his hands. “I waited for you.”
Fernando will ask, “What? When?”
“Back then. I - I,” he will say.
“But - but,” Fernando’s eyebrows will draw together. “We weren’t-”
“I know,” he will say. “But I was.”)
Barcelona are a point behind Real Madrid in the title race. It is the last match of the season, and if Real Madrid win this one, they are through with or without relying on Barcelona’s results. They need to win, no draws, no losses.
It is el Derbi Madrileño. The score is 1-0 for Los Blancos and it’s the 87th minute.
It’s quite identical, the parallels between this match and the final. Except it’s Pepe who gets the red for a tackle on Kun, but it’s still Fernando who lines up to take the penalty kick. Sergio’s eyes - they’re looking at him, pleading to him. Fernando thinks, but I hate Real Madrid, I loathe everything they stand for. He turns to look at Sergio again and he feels - he feels and he isn’t quite sure how to put it into words.
A long time ago, he would’ve taken that penalty kick like his life depended on it - like seeing Real Madrid burn and die was the sole reason for his living. A long time ago, he would’ve laughed at the dread on the Madridistas’ faces. A long time ago, he wouldn’t have cared about Sergio Ramos at all. He wouldn’t have - but he does. He does, he does, and he doesn’t know what to do about it - what to do with all of what he feels.
He looks at the goal and takes a deep breath.
characters: fernando torres/sergio ramos, olalla dominguez, jose antonio reyes, iker casillas, xabi alonso, alvaro arbeloa, kun aguero, diego forlan, alvaro morata, leo torres, nora torres.
rating: pg.
disclaimer: i'm lying.
word count: 6,098.
notes: slightly au, set in the future. fernando is 32 and has transferred back to atletico. i want to preface by saying that this is really bad. hahahaha. i just felt like writing. oops. THIS IS UNBETA'D. someone asked me to write sernando, and, well. YEP.
"You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you. And you feel like you’ve done something terrible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you’re tired. You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you didn’t even have a name for."
- Richard Siken
The air feels warmer than it used to, somehow, and Fernando thinks he might be dehydrated about halfway through training. It bothers him, just like pre-season always does. Just like Diego’s recent haircut does. Just like everything lately does.
He ignores the beads of sweat that are forming on his forehead, daring to turn to puddles. He concocts images of him drowning in a pool of sweat, the tragic tale all over the headlines across the world: Footballer Suffocates in His Own Sweat. Imagine that. He can just see Wayne Rooney, Cristiano Ronaldo, Lionel Messi laughing hysterically at it, like, Fernando Torres can’t even finish a training session without dying, in his own country at that.
He shakes his head. This is stupid. He’s overreacting and he knows it, Madrid isn’t even that hot. He grew up here, this is his city after all. He turns and Diego is looking at him oddly. “What?” he barks and Diego turns away, embarrassed.
“Are you used to being in Madrid for good yet?” It’s Kun. They used to be close, back then, but now Fernando can barely look him in the eye. He’s not sure why.
“Not entirely,” he admits; his face a mixture of a grimace and a smile. Which is probably how he could describe how he’s been feeling ever since he’s come back.
Reyes pulls Fernando’s arm and says, “Let’s get a drink of water.” And Fernando’s grateful for it, because he just isn’t up for awkward conversation with someone he used to consider a friend.
He gets home and he’s tired. A deep sort of tired that starts in his bones and makes its way to settle all over his body - his legs, arms, neck. He likes to think that he hasn’t felt this tired in a while, but really it has been happening a lot this past year. The up-beat tempo of the Prem was killing him, and he thinks that knee surgery he had a few years back was what did it. He hadn’t cared then what had to be done as long as he got to go to the World Cup. They had told him it would lead to less years of playing in the long run, but he hadn’t given a shit back then. Now, he looks down at his knee and has to look away. He still thinks it’s worth it, even with all of the troubles it has led him to.
He turns on his phone for the first time that day. He has 3 texts. The first two are from De Gea and Kun, respectively, asking if he wants to hang out that night. He scrolls to the last one, it’s from Xabi: Hang out tonight at Iker’s. You in?
He texts back: yup, and feels only mildly bad that he’d rather hang out with the enemies than his own teammates. It’s hard though, playing with the team he once left behind. It’s like he’s playing with his past, and he’s just not sure he can handle it.
“How’s Madrid treating you?” Álvaro’s eyes are gleaming, like the way Madrid has been ‘treating’ him is some sort of secret. Some plan plotted by Madridistas that are trying to bring him down.
“Same as Madrid has always treated me,” he lies coolly.
Sergio smirks. “It was hard for these guys to get used to it at first,” he jerks his thumb towards Xabi and Álvaro. “They could probably help you out, if you need it.”
And Fernando glares. “I was born here, I don’t think I need help getting reacquainted with the city.”
Sergio raises one eyebrow (his left one), and says, “Well, that’s good then,” but Fernando knows that he knows. He can tell by the look in his eyes, the odd way he’s staring at Fernando like he’s some foreigner. Fernando wants to yell, you’re the foreigner. You’re not even a fucking Madrileño.
He doesn’t say anything, simply glares into his beer.
The truth is, Fernando doesn’t remember how to live in Madrid.
Madrid. This is his city. When he was in England, all he would do was miss Madrid, and now that he’s here - now that he’s here. He just. Misses England. It’s weird, to be back in the city of his past, his childhood. He can’t remember what he loved so much about his favorite places, what made the city so special. He just, well, can’t.
And the worst part is: the city loves him. It’s as if he never left. He’s captain of Atlético again - the moment he re-signed with them, it was presented to him like he was their savior all over again. It’s just. He feels bad about it, because he doesn’t deserve it, because he hasn’t played for these colors in years.
And worst of all-
he doesn’t remember how to live in Madrid anymore, how to love living here. It scares him a little, how much he has forgotten about it - about the sting of the sun’s rays, the music that flows out of windows adjacent to the streets. It was so quiet in England, just like how Fernando likes it. Just like Fernando, for that matter. He fit in.
In Madrid, he does feel like a foreigner, just as Sergio saw him as one. He feels too quiet for a city that rarely sleeps (it may not be New York City, but he visited there last summer and he thinks that Madrid is pretty damn close).
Reyes says, “It was hard for me at first, to adjust back to Spain after being in London for so long.”
Fernando wants to roll his eyes. He wants to say, I’m different than you. He wants to say, you don’t understand how much I loved this city - how much I loved this team, and now I don’t know how to. I can’t - I can’t. It’s different for me. He says, “I’ve been doing fine,” but they both know it’s a lie.
“It’s supposed to be hard at first, Fernando, you don’t have to-”
And Fernando says, “I’m not,” before jogging over to Kun, asking him to warm up with him.
He goes out for drinks with some of the guys. He’s not sure how they convinced him, but they have. He’s sitting next to Kun when he sees Sergio beam as he walks towards him. Great, he thinks. This is embarrassing, he thinks.
“What are you doing here?” Sergio asks, like it’s absolutely absurd for Fernando to be out - and, you know, having fun.
Fernando bristles, pulls his beer to his lips before mumbling, “Drinking. You?”
Sergio raises an eyebrow. He nods at Diego, shakes hands with Reyes amiably. “Hey, bro,” he says to him and Fernando mulls over whether or not he’s angry that he didn’t answer his question. But then Sergio turns to him again and holds up his own drink, “Drinking,” with a smirk. He pointedly doesn’t glance at Fernando’s right, where Kun is sitting.
He starts hanging out with the Madridistas a lot more, especially Sergio. Which is weird because it feels exactly like old times, almost exactly. He got oddly close with the Sevillan back then as well, up to the point where he had his phone number memorized (Fernando never memorizes phone numbers, that’s what cell phones are for). A day didn’t go by where they wouldn’t hang out, if they were both in Madrid. It was always “let’s go shopping” or to the beach or to the movies or “just come over, we’ll play some FIFA.” He remembers it bothered him at first, how much he had liked the company of the boy in white.
It still bothers him, if he’s quite honest. But that’s that, and they’re hanging out again - as if the years in between never happened, as if they hadn’t drifted apart when he was in England - as easily as it had happened the first time around.
They were never best friends. They had always been good friends, but anyone could see that Sergio has a number of good friends, so it wasn’t like he missed Fernando when he left. He had others to take his place and Fernando never begrudged him for it.
They were never best friends. And because Sergio didn't care, Fernando decided that he hadn't either.
He is at home with the kids when Sergio comes over. The season hasn’t started yet, but it will in a few days. He opens the door, “What’s up?”
Sergio has a 6-pack of beer and a smirk. “I’m here to fuck you up so you lose your first game of the season,” a pause. “It’s a mental tactic.”
Fernando shoots him a look, gestures to lower down his voice. “Watch your language,” he says, pointing back into the room.
“Shit,” he starts, “I mean, er, dang it.” He looks apologetic and hands Fernando the beers. “Guess we can’t use these then, eh?”
Fernando snorts, is about to say, “Nope, guess we can’t,” when Sergio moves past him and into the house. He scoops up Fernando’s kids in one swift movement, smothering them with kisses as if they were his own. Fernando smiles. He says, “Stop trying to steal my kids.”
Sergio laughs. “You know they love me more.”
Fernando punches his arm. It has been hard for the kids, the move back to Spain. They had grown up English for their entire lives, and now they’re back in the country of their (well, Nora’s) birth. Fernando wishes he had spoken more Spanish with them when they were younger, but everyone had said to stick to English so they’d learn - and, well. Now they speak Spanish with English accents and he knows it pains Sergio, he saw it in the disappointed look he had given Fernando when he first heard them - like he was saying, how could your kids be more English than Spanish? How could you let this happen?
I don’t know, Fernando had wanted to say. Probably the way I turned more English than Spanish as well.
He tells Sergio once. He blurts it out, without really thinking about it.
Sergio stares at him for a long time. “You don’t know how to live here anymore? But, Fer,” he starts. His eyebrows furrow and he rubs his thumb against the length of his pants. Back and forth, over and over. Thinking. “It’s easy - I mean, to learn.”
“Easier said than done,” he replies and brings his beer to his lips. “I’ve been here months and I still can’t - I still forget to use Spanish in the grocery stores.”
Sergio takes out Fernando’s kids one day. Fernando stays at home and closes his eyes, thinks that this is the first time all year that he’s felt comfortable - in Madrid. He’s grateful - for Sergio, for Sergio taking the kids for the day, for Sergio not asking about where Olalla is, for Sergio not asking why the kids aren’t there on most days, for Sergio being Sergio.
He wakes up when he hears noises outside, in the backyard. He gets up, stretches his arms way overhead before moving to the window. There, in the backyard, is Sergio. He is sitting in the grass and laughing, Nora and Leo running around him in circles. Sergio surges forward, pulls Leo into his arms and Leo shrieks. Fernando guesses that they’re playing some sort of odd form of a game of tag. Sergio presses a kiss to Leo’s cheek and Fernando - Fernando, he feels - he feels something deep behind his ribcage give way.
He goes out to them. He raises an eyebrow at Sergio when Sergio finally looks up at him. “Why are you on the ground?”
Sergio looks up at him, his eyes crinkle into a smile that his lips aren’t giving way to. “I’m a plant that eats up little kids.” When Fernando’s eyebrow shoots up higher, Sergio lets his smirk go. “It’s called the ‘Plant That Eats Children’ game.”
Fernando snorts. Leo hugs his leg for a moment before running back into the house. Nora sits in Sergio’s lap. Fernando looks at her before glancing back at Sergio’s face. “You’re so lazy.”
Sergio covers Nora’s ears. He mouths, “Fuck you,” and Fernando laughs at that, shaking his head a little before turning and walking into the house.
They’re playing Real Madrid tomorrow, and Fernando had forgotten how hard it is to play against Sergio. Not in that he’s a good footballer, but more in that he’s a good friend. Sergio texts him before: voy a romperte la cara. ;-)
And Fernando - he can’t take the jokes. He doesn’t care if that’s just it - a joke. It hits deeper for him, because most likely, that is what will happen and he hates it. He hates it. He doesn’t reply back and Sergio texts him a few hours later: solo bromeando hombre. bss.
Fernando wants to reply back with something like, fuck you, but knows Sergio knows enough English to know what that actually means.
Before the match, in the tunnel, Sergio hugs him. Fernando’s suddenly ashamed - to even be associated with a Merengue. He barely responds to the hug, doesn’t even look him in the eyes. He can tell that Sergio is frowning without even looking at him.
All he can think as they enter the Bernabéu is, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you. He’s not sure if he’s directing it at the crowd or the stadium or the team or Sergio.
He ends up scoring, right past Sergio fucking Ramos and he feels so relieved when he sees the angry look on Sergio’s face. Yeah, he wants to say, this is football, not something we can bond over and kid around about.
He feels stupid when minutes later, after Sergio tackles him, Sergio rubs his head in apology, like he’s trying to make a statement. Like he’s trying to say, there’s more to life than just a rivalry.
Real Madrid end up scoring in the last minute. 1-1.
Fernando trades shirts with Morata, just because he doesn’t want to with Sergio.
“I thought we’d trade shirts,” Sergio says. He’s waiting outside for Fernando. Why is he waiting outside for Fernando?
“Yeah, well, I wanted Morata’s.”
Sergio nods. “Yeah. I would too.” He nudges Fernando’s arm as they walk along, grinning a little.
Fernando doesn’t respond back. He doesn’t even smile. Sergio frowns. He touches his arm and Fernando recoils. Sergio’s face hardens, he says, “Don’t be such a fucking dick, Fernando.”
“I’m not.”
“Well you’re acting like an asshole. What? Because you drew a match?” He spits out, “Get over it.”
“You wouldn’t understand, you’re a Merengue.”
The way he says it - it’s like it’s venom. Sergio feels taken aback. He looks it, too. “I can’t believe you.”
Fernando starts to walk. He just wants to get away as soon as possible, as fast as possible. He hears Sergio call out behind him, “You’re a wuss, Torres! Football isn’t your entire life, you can’t -” Fernando doesn’t hear the rest, because Sergio’s not shouting anymore. But what he says is, “You can’t let it be.”
They don’t talk for a few days. Fernando thinks Sergio will text him or something, but he doesn’t. He has a hard time concentrating during training. Kun actually gets in his face about it, says, “Get your head in the game, Torres,” and Fernando wants to throttle him.
He wants to say, this is my team. He leaves training early, just storms out and he knows what they think of him. He knows. The one who left. The one who left and failed.
He calls Olalla. “I miss you.”
She says, “Fernando,” and sighs.
He breathes slowly. “No, no,” he gives a shake of his head, as if she can see. “I miss you and I can’t do this, Olalla. I really can’t.”
She doesn’t say anything for a while, and then, “I’ll bring the kids around tomorrow.”
His voice is soft. “Yeah, that’d be nice,” before they say their goodbyes.
He stares at his phone for a moment before going to his contacts and scrolling through the list. He stops at Sergio’s name.
Sergio opens the door after one knock. He leans against it, tilts his head ever so slightly and raises an eyebrow.
Okay, so maybe Fernando should have actually called.
Fernando says, “I wanted to talk.”
Sergio doesn’t budge. “Only if you tell me what the hell is wrong with you.”
Fernando pushes past him, mutters an “okay” over his shoulder as he goes. Sergio offers him a beer. Fernando takes it but doesn’t drink, just holds it in his hands. Finally, he says, voice quiet, “You don’t know how it feels.”
“Right. Because I’m a Merengue, right? Because I play for Real Madrid and you’re such a fucking martyr, playing for Atlético, right?” His voice is sharp. Angry. Annoyed.
“No,” Fernando starts. “You just - you don’t know how it feels to have lost it all.”
Sergio’s face falls at that. He doesn’t say anything, but puts his palm on Fernando’s leg, squeezes. Fernando says, “You have everything. I - I lost it before I even got it.”
Sergio says, “I don’t have everything, Fer. You’re the one who has the wife, the kids. I just have football. That’s all I have.” His voice softens. “I gave up everything for football and where has it got me? I’m almost 30 years old, and. And.”
“Olalla left me.” He looks at him now. “I have nothing left. I get the kids every other weekend.”
Sergio doesn’t say anything. Fernando assumed he knew, but judging by his reaction, he didn’t. Sergio says, “I’m sorry.”
Fernando looks away. After a few moments, he says, “You know, I used to dream of the Champions League, of lifting that European Cup. And now - now - I just want to lift the Copa del Rey. I just want, I want.”
He stops. Sergio touches his face. “You will - you’ll get it, you will.”
They’re at Iker’s. Iker makes jokes now, Fernando notes. He likes to smile now. Retirement looks good on him.
At one point in the night, he says, “You getting used to Madrid again yet?”
Fernando frowns. He glances at Sergio and he’s glaring at Iker.
On their way back to Fernando’s, Fernando says, “You told him, didn’t you?”
“What?” Sergio glances at him momentarily. He keeps his eyes on the road for the most part. When Fernando doesn’t answer, he glances at him again, reaches out to punch his arm lightly. “What?”
Fernando shrugs. “The Madrid thing. You told him.”
“I,” he starts. The corners of Sergio’s mouth turn downward. “It slipped out, I’m sorry.”
Fernando gets out of the car when they reach his place, says, “Thanks for the ride,” before walking briskly to his gate.
Sergio puts his car in park and comes out after him, reaching out for his arm. “Come on, Fer, I didn’t think it was that big of a deal. Anyone would feel like that after being away for so long.”
“Yeah, but not me, Sergio. I was born here - this is my city. This is my city.” He’s red. When Sergio reaches out for him again, he pulls his arm away. “That’s just so - so fucking embarrassing.”
“It’s not,” Sergio says. He puts a hand on Fernando’s neck, pulls him closer and says, “It’s not.”
Sergio kisses him then. When they pull back, they’re both flushed. Sergio tries searching his eyes but Fernando won’t meet them. Sergio says, “I’m sorry,” and Fernando isn’t sure for what.
Xabi throws him and Sergio a surprise birthday party on the 25th. It is in between both of theirs and ‘perfect’, Xabi says. He grins when they walk in, all wide-eyes and glee. Sergio knew already, he claims, but his face says otherwise.
Sergio is 30 now and Fernando is 32 and it’s just. He feels old. He feels old and he hates it. He hates that he’s forced to retire at 32 and he just wants to play - he wants to play football.
Sergio presses kisses to both his cheeks, says, “Happy birthday,” and Fernando feels himself heat up.
“You too,” he smiles. “How do you feel being 30?”
“Eh,” he shrugs with a laugh.
“Don’t worry, it’ll get better.”
Sergio wrinkles his nose and laughs. “You’re lying.”
“Yeah, kind of.”
Sergio takes Fernando to his favorite restaurant in Madrid, once. Fernando laughs at him when he says he’s just trying to show him Madrid again, to reacquaint him with the city. When Kun said that same thing a few weeks earlier, he felt stung. When Sergio says it, he wants to smile.
“Maybe you could show me around more, sometime.”
Sergio looks at him. “Yeah, that would be really nice.”
Reyes sits with him during his massage. He offered and Fernando accepted, although he wasn’t sure why. They sit and they chat and finally, Reyes says, “You and Serg have been buddying it up, huh? Just like old times?”
Fernando turns his head to look at him. The masseuse looks particularly interested in Fernando’s left thigh, suddenly. Fernando’s knee starts to hurt. “Uh, yeah.”
“Shouldn’t he be the enemy?” He cracks a smile.
Fernando shrugs.
Fernando has his leg up, an ice pack on his knee, when Sergio walks in. “Hey, bro, I was thinking we’d -” He stops when he sees Fernando. “Shit, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he says. Earlier, in training, Kun’s foot struck the ball too late. It wasn’t Kun’s fault. It really wasn’t. When Fernando tries to explain, Sergio’s face hardens.
“That fucker.”
“Jesus, Sergio, it was an accident. You and Kun need to cool it.”
Sergio shrugs, walking backwards into the kitchens. “Fine, fine, I won’t go for his legs next match.” He smirks a little before he ducks in.
Fernando only wishes he’ll come back. It’s weird, how his chest feels lighter when he’s around. It’s weird and stupid and embarrassing.
Fernando, he’s at his best form in years, despite the leg. They just keep winning. They’re third in the league, but a whopping 7 points off Barcelona - who are second. Real Madrid are first.
But it really is the Copa del Rey that Fernando has his eyes on.
After they make it to the final, the team goes out and celebrates. He goes over to Sergio’s, happy and intoxicated, and kisses him before Sergio has a chance to let him in. Sergio doesn’t object as he pulls him inside and shuts the door behind them.
He blames himself when a week later, Real Madrid makes it to the final as well.
They don’t talk about it again. Just like how they don’t talk about the childhood they never had, the dreams they had and the ones that failed, the things that happened and didn’t happen.
Fernando sits in his father’s house; his parents are out back in the garden. He feels like a kid again. He feels 10 years younger, and he wishes - he wishes and regrets and thinks. It’s what his life is made up of, these days. Wishes and regrets and thoughts.
He looks at old magazines, old newspaper clippings. ‘Madrid’s Golden Boy’, they say. ‘The Future of the City’, they say. He feels a tug at his chest that is akin to nostalgia.
No one ever claimed him like Madrid did. The chance was taken away from Liverpool, London never had a reason to, but Madrid - Madrid.
But, Madrid.
Fernando goes over to Reyes’. When he takes a seat on his couch, he asks, “Do you ever miss England?”
Reyes turns to glance at him. He scratches his head. “Yeah, I guess.” Fernando looks at him and Reyes says, “I had a tough time in England. Sometimes I wish I could go back and fix it.”
“Sometimes I just wish I could go back,” he says, voice quiet.
“Really?” Reyes actually looks surprised. “But Madrid is your home, Niño.”
I know, he wants to say. I know.
“I’m retiring at the end of this season, you know.”
“What?” Sergio looks at him and his eyes are wide. Fernando shrugs, and Sergio says, “You’ve got at least a few more years in you.”
“I don’t,” Fernando says. He rubs his knee. Sergio stares at it and Fernando stares at him. “I should’ve stopped last year, with this leg.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” he replies honestly. “Maybe go back to England for a bit.”
Sergio tries not to look as surprised as he feels. He straightens his face. “But Madrid,” he stops.
They lose to Barcelona. It’s not the 6-1 that Fernando still feels somewhere deep in his chest, but it’s 2-1 and it’s still a loss. Reyes and Kun wait for him while he changes, and they all go out for drinks. After a beer or two, Fernando turns to Reyes. He says, “Remember when we were all friends back in the day?”
Reyes frowns, confusion etched in his face. “What?”
“You, me, and Sergio. Remember? A Rojiblanco and two Madridistas.” It’s not funny, but he’s laughing.
“Yeah,” Reyes smiles softly thinking about it. “Yeah.”
Fernando picks at the hem of his jeans. He glances from his beer to Reyes to Kun to Reyes to his beer to Reyes. “It didn’t feel wrong then.”
Reyes furrows his eyebrows, leans forward and pats his back. “It wasn’t - it isn’t, even now, Fer.”
“It feels like it is,” he mutters.
Kun interjects, “I don’t get why you’re even friends with that Ramos.”
Fernando glares into his drink when he really just wants to glare at Kun. “I don’t either,” he says, but doesn’t mean.
Sergio gets a drunken phonecall from Fernando, singing, “Hala Madrid, Hala Madrid, el equipo del gobierno, la verguenza del país.”
“Hello?” Sergio’s voice sounds groggy, agitated, not sure what’s going on.
Fernando says, “I fucking hate Madrid,” and Sergio sits up because now he realizes that he’s drunk.
“Where are you?”
Fernando shakes his head into the phone. “No, no, no, I hate Real Madrid.”
Sergio pulls on a sweater, holding the phone to his ear. “Fernando, where are you? Do you need me to come get you?”
“Actually, maybe I hate Madrid too - because everyone associates Madrid with Real Madrid - and I hate being associated with Real fucking Madrid - and that’s why I hate you - that’s why we can never really be friends-”
He doesn’t say, you make it easier to breathe in Madrid, though. You make it feel like home. He doesn’t say, at the beginning of the season, all I wanted was to go back to England and now I can’t imagine leaving again - I can’t imagine leaving you. He wants to say, I don’t know what to do anymore.
But he’s drunk and he never says what he wants to say even when he’s not, so.
Sergio frowns. He sits down on his bed again. “Fuck you, Torres,” is all he says before he hangs up.
Fernando hates the way his stomach drops, the way Sergio’s disappointment feels like a punch to the gut. He wants - he wants to hate him, he’s supposed to hate him.
He throws up near a dumpster.
Fernando drives around the city sometimes. He drives past Cibeles and can’t help but stare. It’s beautiful, it is, but the mark Real Madrid has left on the site has ruined it for him. He thinks of Sergio, who says Cibeles is his favorite part of the city. He feels so tiny against it, feels so - inferior. He’s only got two cups to his name, and Cibeles - Cibeles has more. Much more.
He drives to Neptuno as well. He comes here a lot - when his kids are with Olalla and Sergio isn’t around. When he’s alone, with nothing to do but think. He is - he is, this fountain is his. He closes his eyes and sees all the celebrations here he wished for when he was a kid, the ones he dreamt up of and never had.
They end up beating Real Madrid in the Copa del Rey final.
He and Sergio hadn’t spoken in two weeks. The day of the final - Fernando refuses to acknowledge him. Fernando nods at the few he knows from the team in the tunnel, but he won’t look at Sergio. Sergio hugs Reyes, says something to him that makes him laugh. He says rallying words to his team, and Fernando thinks he should too, but refuses to now that Sergio has. He knows he’s being immature.
They shake hands, finally, but only because they’re forced to. Sergio looks at him then, and Fernando sees something in the depth of his eyes. Sergio says, voice quiet as they walk back to their teams, “Good luck.” He reaches over and rubs the back of Fernando’s neck for a moment. It takes everything in Fernando’s will not to hug him.
It is 1-1 at halftime. Fernando, while he walks into the locker rooms, can only think about how this is his last chance. This is the last thing he can contribute to this team, to his childhood, to what he dreamed of since the first day he set foot in the Calderón when he was two. In the locker rooms, he tells the team of a dream he had of winning the Champions League - and how he’ll never get that, but he sure as hell can get this. “We have to win,” he says. “There is no other option.”
And maybe they all want to win it for him, for their captain, for the kid who lost his childhood before it began for this team.
As they wait for the whistle for the second half to blow, Sergio catches Fernando’s eye. He smiles, makes a gesture like, ‘I’m watching you’. Fernando rolls his eyes, smirking, and then Sergio gives him a look that Fernando can’t quite place. Fernando feels his chest grow tight.
Real Madrid have possession most of the second half. Fernando feels helpless with every time Adán saves a shot. In the last 10 minutes of the match, something happens that changes things. Sergio Ramos elbows Fernando Torres in the box. It’s stupid, so stupid, and earns him his second yellow. It’s so horribly tragic that it seems unreal, and everyone is saying, how in the world did Sergio Ramos do something so stupid? Fernando can’t quite believe it, but then - but then Sergio goes over to him to apologize and whispers, “Don’t fuck this up, Torres.”
Fernando stares at him in disbelief. Sergio goes to stand in the sidelines to watch, and Zidane can barely look at his player - can barely see past the stupidity he has shown. Sergio mutters an apology while Fernando lines himself up to take the shot.
At the end of the match, in the tunnel, Fernando doesn’t hold back from hugging him.
He calls Olalla. “Did they watch? Were they watching?”
His excitement is heard all the way in Olalla’s little house. “Yes,” she says, smiling. “Congratulations,” and, “Nice penalty,” before she hands the phone over to their son.
Fernando isn’t one for crying, but when his son says, “This is the first time I’ve seen you win something, dad,” he can’t help the tears that form.
When they arrive at Neptuno, cup in hand, he thinks, this is for you.
A few days later, he knocks on Sergio’s door. Sergio runs a hand over his face when he sees him.
Fernando says, in one breath, “Thank you.”
Sergio leans an arm on his door, sighs and looks somewhere to the left of Fernando. “I did it for you, you know.”
“I know,” Fernando says, and then, “Can I come in?”
Sergio lets him in. They sit on the couch and Fernando drums his fingers along the armrest. He turns to Sergio. “Why?”
“I’m old,” he says. “I’m old and I’ve won everything I’ve ever dreamt of winning, but I - I,” he shrugs. “I don’t have anything else in life and maybe I need to change that. Maybe that’s what I was trying to do.”
Fernando feels helpless. He feels like he’s falling and falling and falling and there’s nothing he can do about it, but he doesn’t want to - he doesn’t want to. “But,” he starts.
“We’re old now, Fer,” voice soft. “You’re retiring this year and I’ll retire in a few - it won’t matter - no one will care.”
Fernando looks away. And Sergio - he’s not stupid. He gets up and goes to the kitchen. Fernando follows him and says, quietly, “I’m sorry, it’s just - I have kids, Sergio.”
Sergio nods a little, and shrugs. He’s tired. He’s 30 years and he’s just so fucking tired of all of this. “Yeah.” He spits, “You have kids, and 10 years ago you had a career, and-”
“Stop,” Fernando says, voice soft. “It’s not my fault.”
“It is, Fer.”
There’s so much Fernando wants to say, but doesn’t know how. There’s so much he will never know how to say.
Fernando takes his kids out to lunch. He sees Sergio sitting at a table with a teammate of his. He can’t remember his name. Sergio offers Fernando a smile, it looks sad in all its sincerity. Fernando can’t stop looking at him. The kid smiles at him though, and says, “How are you liking Madrid these days, Torres?”
Sergio raises an eyebrow at him. Fernando looks straight at him when he says, “Madrid - Madrid is nice.”
“Did you have trouble settling in?”
“Yeah, but it came back to me eventually.” He smiles. “Madrid - it’s my home. So.”
Sergio smiles at that.
(Later, after Sergio has retired and returned to Seville, he will write Fernando a letter.
Querido Fernando, it will say.
It will say: How are you? How is Madrid? The kids? Is Olalla still with that doctor, because I’m still looking for someone. And she always did resemble you… ;-)
Haha, kidding. I bought a house for my parents right next door to mine. Who would’ve thought that I’d be single at 37, and living next door to my parents? What a sad life I live… :-)
You know, I’ve been thinking a lot these days. I’m finally back in Seville and I think I finally know what you were talking about, all those years ago. I think my problem is different though. You know how they say home is where the heart is?
I left mine in Madrid.
Hope you’re well.
There is a house in Seville whose doors are always open for you, it will say.
It will say: I miss you.
Later, Fernando will receive a visit from the Sevillan. They will chat and smile. Finally, Sergio will look down at his hands. “I waited for you.”
Fernando will ask, “What? When?”
“Back then. I - I,” he will say.
“But - but,” Fernando’s eyebrows will draw together. “We weren’t-”
“I know,” he will say. “But I was.”)
Barcelona are a point behind Real Madrid in the title race. It is the last match of the season, and if Real Madrid win this one, they are through with or without relying on Barcelona’s results. They need to win, no draws, no losses.
It is el Derbi Madrileño. The score is 1-0 for Los Blancos and it’s the 87th minute.
It’s quite identical, the parallels between this match and the final. Except it’s Pepe who gets the red for a tackle on Kun, but it’s still Fernando who lines up to take the penalty kick. Sergio’s eyes - they’re looking at him, pleading to him. Fernando thinks, but I hate Real Madrid, I loathe everything they stand for. He turns to look at Sergio again and he feels - he feels and he isn’t quite sure how to put it into words.
A long time ago, he would’ve taken that penalty kick like his life depended on it - like seeing Real Madrid burn and die was the sole reason for his living. A long time ago, he would’ve laughed at the dread on the Madridistas’ faces. A long time ago, he wouldn’t have cared about Sergio Ramos at all. He wouldn’t have - but he does. He does, he does, and he doesn’t know what to do about it - what to do with all of what he feels.
He looks at the goal and takes a deep breath.