fic: cheerios
Title: Cheerios
Pairing: Fernando Torres/Sergio Ramos
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 955
Disclaimer: Only real in my head. Darker than usual.
Notes: Wrote this while half asleep. I'm not really sure that I like it, but I wanted to post it anyways.
It's the first night that Fernando has been home in over two weeks, and though he tries to ignore it, the strain is obvious. There's that hidden desperation of hold me, hold me in Olalla's touch, heat that he knows won't freeze over without some action. And so he’s (guiltily) using Olalla’s computer, trying to restrain obvious fingers from rushing the process, but he’s got the condom in his pocket and the cheerios on his counter, and he knows that it’s getting late. It’s been two or three nights since he’s last checked, and he feels a bit nervous, even though he knows it’s silly. He’s afraid of what he will find, as always, but he types Sergio’s name into the search bar anyways, skimming quickly to search because he knows that Olalla is waiting. There are the usual bogus talks of transfers to some shitty club in Egypt, and even a new collection of bronzed images from a late trip to the beach (he ignores these), but finally, Fernando comes across what needs to find. The headline reads, in the innocent disguise of Times New Roman, “Sergio Ramos Spotted with Gucci Model in Downtown Bar”. He clicks and, as usual, he can’t breathe.
“You must get this a lot, but you’re beautiful,” he imagines in Sergio’s wistful whispers, a finger tucking his hair behind his ear. He sees the motion of that stupid grin in the watermarked photos, the perfectly timed cheap jokes and the inevitable “You’re even more charming in person,” in an overextended husky accent. The girl will have stressed the S in his name, because he’s seen it before; they all love it, “SSssSSSergioo”. A touch of lipstick and the wise forethought to pretend to love flamenco as much as Sergio does, and she’ll turn him into a goner.
Fernando notices the sweat collecting under his mouse. He clears his browsing history as always, a repetitive motion that’s been ingrained in his brain, expectant eyes halfway hoping that this will be the day that he will finally be caught.
But he won’t be, and so he calls Sergio. His phone is locked, and some pang of arthritic and aging guilt, far too ancient to be exciting anymore, settles in his fading conscious. (“Fer, why do you always have your phone locked? What on earth are you hiding?” Olalla will laugh. Fernando is equally talented at pretending.)
He answers in two rings, and Fernando holds his breath until he’s sure he won’t let his tears out through his mouth. The box of cheerios stares at him from across the counter.
“You hate fake boobs.” Fernando says.
“I do.” he whispers.
“You told me you would never date a girl with airbags in her boobs.”
“I know.”
There’s a long silence after that, and Fernando knows that Sergio knows exactly what he is thinking and why he only makes this call when Olalla seems a bit restless and anxious.
Fernando wants to hang up. He’s sure that Sergio has slept with the bar girl; the guilt is poignant, even over the phone. Sergio seems to be sleeping with everyone these days, after all. Everyone, except for him.
He wants to hang up, but he doesn’t, because enough damage hasn’t been done yet, so Sergio speaks again.
“Next Saturday then?” A girl distinctly giggles in the background, and Sergio shushes her.
“Yeah." Fernando swallows, and he finally aches.
---
He sits at the kitchen table that night at three, warning Olalla that he doesn’t know when he’ll be able to fall asleep, but it’s understood that he’ll be with her in a few hours. His third bowl of cheerios sits placidly in front of him, apologizing for the remnants of the mess that he used to love to be. He has a game the next morning, but he knows that he won’t be able to touch the normalcy of Olalla or his bed or his dreams quite yet, so the light in the kitchen is far too bright and he’s also working on his second caffeine pill.
Sergio’s fucking her now, Fernando can guess this pretty easily, because Sergio has never been unpredictable. That’s his distinctive style, after all, the gnashing of teeth on some bar stool leading slippery to his guest bedroom (his own bedroom is reserved for Fernando, Sergio lies), tongues tying together in commitments that will last a single night and half-removed undergarments offering promises of baby, baby, don’t stop. He knows how Sergio will taste on her tongue, and how she'll be finding pieces of his hair weaved within her clothes for the next few weeks. Fernando remembers it all distinctly.
He covers his ears with his hands and is quite sure that he needs to throw up all of his cheerios. But he’s almost ready for her now, and so it really has all been worth it.
He pukes up every last morsel and feels pretty accomplished, wiping the remnants of the night’s emotions away from the corner of his mouth before crawling into bed, his task completed. Olalla pretends to be asleep, and Fernando plays into their familiar charade perfectly.
Somehow, he finds it easier to touch the woman he deserves to love whenever he knows the sight of her skin will make him sick with guilt. He knows that it is wrong, and it’s a method of juvenile detachment, but it makes the sex better because he can whisper Sergio’s name in his head over and over and cry out when it’s finally time and if Olalla notices anything, she doesn’t show it. It’s when he’s craving Sergio the most that he’s able to stand himself in her presence, so Fernando nudges Olalla softly and then finally can stand to sleep with her.
Pairing: Fernando Torres/Sergio Ramos
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 955
Disclaimer: Only real in my head. Darker than usual.
Notes: Wrote this while half asleep. I'm not really sure that I like it, but I wanted to post it anyways.
It's the first night that Fernando has been home in over two weeks, and though he tries to ignore it, the strain is obvious. There's that hidden desperation of hold me, hold me in Olalla's touch, heat that he knows won't freeze over without some action. And so he’s (guiltily) using Olalla’s computer, trying to restrain obvious fingers from rushing the process, but he’s got the condom in his pocket and the cheerios on his counter, and he knows that it’s getting late. It’s been two or three nights since he’s last checked, and he feels a bit nervous, even though he knows it’s silly. He’s afraid of what he will find, as always, but he types Sergio’s name into the search bar anyways, skimming quickly to search because he knows that Olalla is waiting. There are the usual bogus talks of transfers to some shitty club in Egypt, and even a new collection of bronzed images from a late trip to the beach (he ignores these), but finally, Fernando comes across what needs to find. The headline reads, in the innocent disguise of Times New Roman, “Sergio Ramos Spotted with Gucci Model in Downtown Bar”. He clicks and, as usual, he can’t breathe.
“You must get this a lot, but you’re beautiful,” he imagines in Sergio’s wistful whispers, a finger tucking his hair behind his ear. He sees the motion of that stupid grin in the watermarked photos, the perfectly timed cheap jokes and the inevitable “You’re even more charming in person,” in an overextended husky accent. The girl will have stressed the S in his name, because he’s seen it before; they all love it, “SSssSSSergioo”. A touch of lipstick and the wise forethought to pretend to love flamenco as much as Sergio does, and she’ll turn him into a goner.
Fernando notices the sweat collecting under his mouse. He clears his browsing history as always, a repetitive motion that’s been ingrained in his brain, expectant eyes halfway hoping that this will be the day that he will finally be caught.
But he won’t be, and so he calls Sergio. His phone is locked, and some pang of arthritic and aging guilt, far too ancient to be exciting anymore, settles in his fading conscious. (“Fer, why do you always have your phone locked? What on earth are you hiding?” Olalla will laugh. Fernando is equally talented at pretending.)
He answers in two rings, and Fernando holds his breath until he’s sure he won’t let his tears out through his mouth. The box of cheerios stares at him from across the counter.
“You hate fake boobs.” Fernando says.
“I do.” he whispers.
“You told me you would never date a girl with airbags in her boobs.”
“I know.”
There’s a long silence after that, and Fernando knows that Sergio knows exactly what he is thinking and why he only makes this call when Olalla seems a bit restless and anxious.
Fernando wants to hang up. He’s sure that Sergio has slept with the bar girl; the guilt is poignant, even over the phone. Sergio seems to be sleeping with everyone these days, after all. Everyone, except for him.
He wants to hang up, but he doesn’t, because enough damage hasn’t been done yet, so Sergio speaks again.
“Next Saturday then?” A girl distinctly giggles in the background, and Sergio shushes her.
“Yeah." Fernando swallows, and he finally aches.
---
He sits at the kitchen table that night at three, warning Olalla that he doesn’t know when he’ll be able to fall asleep, but it’s understood that he’ll be with her in a few hours. His third bowl of cheerios sits placidly in front of him, apologizing for the remnants of the mess that he used to love to be. He has a game the next morning, but he knows that he won’t be able to touch the normalcy of Olalla or his bed or his dreams quite yet, so the light in the kitchen is far too bright and he’s also working on his second caffeine pill.
Sergio’s fucking her now, Fernando can guess this pretty easily, because Sergio has never been unpredictable. That’s his distinctive style, after all, the gnashing of teeth on some bar stool leading slippery to his guest bedroom (his own bedroom is reserved for Fernando, Sergio lies), tongues tying together in commitments that will last a single night and half-removed undergarments offering promises of baby, baby, don’t stop. He knows how Sergio will taste on her tongue, and how she'll be finding pieces of his hair weaved within her clothes for the next few weeks. Fernando remembers it all distinctly.
He covers his ears with his hands and is quite sure that he needs to throw up all of his cheerios. But he’s almost ready for her now, and so it really has all been worth it.
He pukes up every last morsel and feels pretty accomplished, wiping the remnants of the night’s emotions away from the corner of his mouth before crawling into bed, his task completed. Olalla pretends to be asleep, and Fernando plays into their familiar charade perfectly.
Somehow, he finds it easier to touch the woman he deserves to love whenever he knows the sight of her skin will make him sick with guilt. He knows that it is wrong, and it’s a method of juvenile detachment, but it makes the sex better because he can whisper Sergio’s name in his head over and over and cry out when it’s finally time and if Olalla notices anything, she doesn’t show it. It’s when he’s craving Sergio the most that he’s able to stand himself in her presence, so Fernando nudges Olalla softly and then finally can stand to sleep with her.