[fic] Radio Silence (Luciano/Martín)
Title: Radio silence
Pairing: Luciano/Martín (Brazil/Argentina)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1500~
Summary: Based on Alán's long distance relationship AU - Luciano can't talk for a week, and Martín feels like he's going a little crazy.
It rained Thursday afternoon, and Martín had to run from school to the bus stop with his jacket draped over his head, which did not do much to prevent his back and butt from getting wet. While he waited for the bus to arrive, shivering on one of the damp benches, he pulled out his phone and checked to see if Luciano had sent him any messages during the day.
He had, and Martín bit back a smile as he opened the text:
I can’t talk until next Friday. :(
Martín blinked at the sparse words, reading them over again just in case he had missed anything the first time. There was no explanation, no apology, and Martín could not help the twinge in his chest when he thought that maybe Luciano was too busy for him, but that was such a stupid thought that he pushed it from his mind before it had time to sink in. Something must have been wrong for Luciano to disappear on such short notice.
If Luciano had lived close enough, Martin would have run to his house and demanded to know what was going on, but as it was, he had to settle for calling him. The first time he tried, he was sent straight to voice mail, and again the second and the third times until he was ready to throw his phone into the gutter. How could Luciano leave him hanging like that? Did he think that Martín would not ask any questions? That he would not…well, he was not worried exactly because no one had that kind of power over him, but he did call him one more time, huddled under the little shelter with a few other students as he murmured, “What’s wrong? Call me,” into his phone.
When he arrived home, the first thing he did, before taking a warm shower or changing into dry clothes, was to send Luciano an instant message and an email asking what the text had been about. Then he waited for an hour, enough time to get comfortable, warm, and dry, and to grab a snack from the kitchen. There was still no answer when he got back.
At this point Martín felt restless in his own skin. He had never considered himself a creature of routine, but he had also never considered Luciano a routine. Luciano was just always there. He was there when Martín got home from school, he was there when Martín was putting off his homework in the evening, he was there when Martín was lying in bed wondering if Luciano was struggling to keep his own eyes open so many hundreds of kilometers away to the sound of their voices rasping with exhaustion. And even if he could not touch him, he could read his words and hear his voice and that was enough to make the hole they left now sting with loss.
He sulked in school the next day, growling at the couples who held hands or stopped to kiss in the hallway and were in general making a nuisance of themselves, as if they had no respect for people who did not want romance or love or anything sappy like that shoved in their face. He stewed in his frustration until the thought flashed through his mind that maybe Luciano was tired of not being able to hold his hand whenever he wanted, or maybe he was getting cold feet and wanted to take a step back, and suddenly he felt as if a frigid wave had just crashed over his head.
After making a scene in the nurse’s office, he was allowed to go home early with an upset stomach, where he tried to lie down and relax, only to get up every ten minutes to check his email and his instant messenger and his cell phone until his dad got home and fussed over him, which eased his nerves a little. With the thermometer under his tongue, a heating pad tucked under the covers with him, and his dad’s hand brushing his hair off his face and peering into his eyes with concern, it actually felt like someone cared. Not that he needed pity because he was not at all upset about not talking to Luciano for an entire day.
At midnight he awoke to the flashing lights of his phone and after groggily fumbling for it on his nightstand, he found that he had a message waiting for him. With trembling fingers he checked who it was from, and when he found that it was one of his friends from school asking if he wanted to hang out with some people on Saturday if he was feeling better, he threw it across the room where it hit the wall over his dresser with a sickening thunk, scuffing the paint.
The next day he managed to drag himself out of bed and go into town to meet his friends and was somehow able to blame his listlessness on his lingering illness. Every word his friends spoke was the empty promise of what Luciano could have said better; every pat on the shoulder was a reminder of what he could not have. He went home early and spent the evening watching novelas while biting on his pillow in a vain attempt to stop everything from falling apart.
Martín was beginning to suspect that something was wrong with him, like someone had put some kind of curse on him or given him the evil eye because he really should not be feeling so helpless after only two days. Two days that felt like two months, and he knew he was probably blowing this out of proportion, but it made him wonder if this was what quitting an addiction cold turkey felt like.
Sunday was a blur of cleaning house, checking for messages from Luciano, and watching football with his dad. During the last fifteen minutes of the match, his phone flashed in his lap. Martín’s heart leapt to his throat as he read Luciano’s text:
Are you busy now?
He dashed to his bedroom and slammed the door shut, ignoring his dad’s scolding as he called Luciano. This time the phone actually rang, just once, before he heard a familiar voice on the other end say, “Hey.”
It would have been mortifying to choke up right then because three days, but Martín inhaled deeply and managed to only sound like he had a ten pound weight sitting on his chest as he answered, “You said next Friday.” That was not what he had wanted to say at all, but it was true.
“Yeah, that’s what my dad said. He, uh, found that Portuguese test I’d failed. And then he opened the phone bill and I guess it was too much at once, so he cut me off from the the Internet and my phone and I didn’t even have time to explain everything to you.”
“And he gave in after three days?”
“He said that I was too young to be moping around all lovesick. He’s really a romantic at heart.”
Martín could feel his heartbeat speed up when Luciano called himself lovesick. He bit his lip, thankful that Luciano could not see the way his face had scrunched up. “You could have said you were grounded.”
“Didn’t I?”
“No!”
“Well, sorry. I was just in a hurry to say anything to you so you wouldn’t think I was ignoring you for an entire week. Would you have preferred that?”
“Of course not,” Martín mumbled, considering that scenario. “But still, I was…never mind. Just don’t do it again.”
“Did you miss me?” Luciano’s voice sounded so hopeful that Martín could not have denied it if he had wanted to.
“What do you think?”
“Come on, don’t be like that,” Luciano protested. “You have no idea how much I missed talking to you. It felt so weird.”
I do. It felt like there was a giant hole in my life, Martín thought. Instead he said, “So how did you manage without me?”
“I didn’t,” Luciano laughed. “I thought I was going to go crazy if I couldn’t talk to you soon. I don’t know what you did to me, but you messed me up pretty bad.”
“No, you’re the one who’s screwing with me,” Martín replied.
“Then I guess we’re perfect for each other. You know, I even wrote you a letter yesterday. God, I feel so stupid.”
“You could still send it.”
“No, it’s so embarrassing!”
“More embarrassing than anything else you say to me?” Martín smiled against the phone. “Just send it to me, chicken. I want to read it.”
“This is your payback, isn’t it?” Luciano wailed.
“Geez, you’re acting like you wrote me a love letter or poetry or something.” Martín chuckled, and then in the ensuing silence it clicked. “That’s exactly what you wrote, isn’t it?”
Luciano made a strangled sound that made Martín grin even wider and say, “Maybe we should not talk for a day or two more often if this is what it makes you do.”
“No!” Luciano sputtered. “No, it was terrible. Especially thinking that I wouldn’t get to hear your voice for an entire week.”
“I know, I was just kidding. It was…” Martín sighed. “I missed you, too.” He listened to the sound of Luciano breathing for a moment, feeling the now familiar flip in his stomach that still took him by surprise ever time. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” Luciano murmured back, and then they listened to each other’s silence for a while longer while Martín held his pillow and imagined it was a warm body against him, and Luciano did the same.
Pairing: Luciano/Martín (Brazil/Argentina)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1500~
Summary: Based on Alán's long distance relationship AU - Luciano can't talk for a week, and Martín feels like he's going a little crazy.
It rained Thursday afternoon, and Martín had to run from school to the bus stop with his jacket draped over his head, which did not do much to prevent his back and butt from getting wet. While he waited for the bus to arrive, shivering on one of the damp benches, he pulled out his phone and checked to see if Luciano had sent him any messages during the day.
He had, and Martín bit back a smile as he opened the text:
I can’t talk until next Friday. :(
Martín blinked at the sparse words, reading them over again just in case he had missed anything the first time. There was no explanation, no apology, and Martín could not help the twinge in his chest when he thought that maybe Luciano was too busy for him, but that was such a stupid thought that he pushed it from his mind before it had time to sink in. Something must have been wrong for Luciano to disappear on such short notice.
If Luciano had lived close enough, Martin would have run to his house and demanded to know what was going on, but as it was, he had to settle for calling him. The first time he tried, he was sent straight to voice mail, and again the second and the third times until he was ready to throw his phone into the gutter. How could Luciano leave him hanging like that? Did he think that Martín would not ask any questions? That he would not…well, he was not worried exactly because no one had that kind of power over him, but he did call him one more time, huddled under the little shelter with a few other students as he murmured, “What’s wrong? Call me,” into his phone.
When he arrived home, the first thing he did, before taking a warm shower or changing into dry clothes, was to send Luciano an instant message and an email asking what the text had been about. Then he waited for an hour, enough time to get comfortable, warm, and dry, and to grab a snack from the kitchen. There was still no answer when he got back.
At this point Martín felt restless in his own skin. He had never considered himself a creature of routine, but he had also never considered Luciano a routine. Luciano was just always there. He was there when Martín got home from school, he was there when Martín was putting off his homework in the evening, he was there when Martín was lying in bed wondering if Luciano was struggling to keep his own eyes open so many hundreds of kilometers away to the sound of their voices rasping with exhaustion. And even if he could not touch him, he could read his words and hear his voice and that was enough to make the hole they left now sting with loss.
He sulked in school the next day, growling at the couples who held hands or stopped to kiss in the hallway and were in general making a nuisance of themselves, as if they had no respect for people who did not want romance or love or anything sappy like that shoved in their face. He stewed in his frustration until the thought flashed through his mind that maybe Luciano was tired of not being able to hold his hand whenever he wanted, or maybe he was getting cold feet and wanted to take a step back, and suddenly he felt as if a frigid wave had just crashed over his head.
After making a scene in the nurse’s office, he was allowed to go home early with an upset stomach, where he tried to lie down and relax, only to get up every ten minutes to check his email and his instant messenger and his cell phone until his dad got home and fussed over him, which eased his nerves a little. With the thermometer under his tongue, a heating pad tucked under the covers with him, and his dad’s hand brushing his hair off his face and peering into his eyes with concern, it actually felt like someone cared. Not that he needed pity because he was not at all upset about not talking to Luciano for an entire day.
At midnight he awoke to the flashing lights of his phone and after groggily fumbling for it on his nightstand, he found that he had a message waiting for him. With trembling fingers he checked who it was from, and when he found that it was one of his friends from school asking if he wanted to hang out with some people on Saturday if he was feeling better, he threw it across the room where it hit the wall over his dresser with a sickening thunk, scuffing the paint.
The next day he managed to drag himself out of bed and go into town to meet his friends and was somehow able to blame his listlessness on his lingering illness. Every word his friends spoke was the empty promise of what Luciano could have said better; every pat on the shoulder was a reminder of what he could not have. He went home early and spent the evening watching novelas while biting on his pillow in a vain attempt to stop everything from falling apart.
Martín was beginning to suspect that something was wrong with him, like someone had put some kind of curse on him or given him the evil eye because he really should not be feeling so helpless after only two days. Two days that felt like two months, and he knew he was probably blowing this out of proportion, but it made him wonder if this was what quitting an addiction cold turkey felt like.
Sunday was a blur of cleaning house, checking for messages from Luciano, and watching football with his dad. During the last fifteen minutes of the match, his phone flashed in his lap. Martín’s heart leapt to his throat as he read Luciano’s text:
Are you busy now?
He dashed to his bedroom and slammed the door shut, ignoring his dad’s scolding as he called Luciano. This time the phone actually rang, just once, before he heard a familiar voice on the other end say, “Hey.”
It would have been mortifying to choke up right then because three days, but Martín inhaled deeply and managed to only sound like he had a ten pound weight sitting on his chest as he answered, “You said next Friday.” That was not what he had wanted to say at all, but it was true.
“Yeah, that’s what my dad said. He, uh, found that Portuguese test I’d failed. And then he opened the phone bill and I guess it was too much at once, so he cut me off from the the Internet and my phone and I didn’t even have time to explain everything to you.”
“And he gave in after three days?”
“He said that I was too young to be moping around all lovesick. He’s really a romantic at heart.”
Martín could feel his heartbeat speed up when Luciano called himself lovesick. He bit his lip, thankful that Luciano could not see the way his face had scrunched up. “You could have said you were grounded.”
“Didn’t I?”
“No!”
“Well, sorry. I was just in a hurry to say anything to you so you wouldn’t think I was ignoring you for an entire week. Would you have preferred that?”
“Of course not,” Martín mumbled, considering that scenario. “But still, I was…never mind. Just don’t do it again.”
“Did you miss me?” Luciano’s voice sounded so hopeful that Martín could not have denied it if he had wanted to.
“What do you think?”
“Come on, don’t be like that,” Luciano protested. “You have no idea how much I missed talking to you. It felt so weird.”
I do. It felt like there was a giant hole in my life, Martín thought. Instead he said, “So how did you manage without me?”
“I didn’t,” Luciano laughed. “I thought I was going to go crazy if I couldn’t talk to you soon. I don’t know what you did to me, but you messed me up pretty bad.”
“No, you’re the one who’s screwing with me,” Martín replied.
“Then I guess we’re perfect for each other. You know, I even wrote you a letter yesterday. God, I feel so stupid.”
“You could still send it.”
“No, it’s so embarrassing!”
“More embarrassing than anything else you say to me?” Martín smiled against the phone. “Just send it to me, chicken. I want to read it.”
“This is your payback, isn’t it?” Luciano wailed.
“Geez, you’re acting like you wrote me a love letter or poetry or something.” Martín chuckled, and then in the ensuing silence it clicked. “That’s exactly what you wrote, isn’t it?”
Luciano made a strangled sound that made Martín grin even wider and say, “Maybe we should not talk for a day or two more often if this is what it makes you do.”
“No!” Luciano sputtered. “No, it was terrible. Especially thinking that I wouldn’t get to hear your voice for an entire week.”
“I know, I was just kidding. It was…” Martín sighed. “I missed you, too.” He listened to the sound of Luciano breathing for a moment, feeling the now familiar flip in his stomach that still took him by surprise ever time. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” Luciano murmured back, and then they listened to each other’s silence for a while longer while Martín held his pillow and imagined it was a warm body against him, and Luciano did the same.