rps: freedom hangs like heaven: fernando torres/sergio ramos: (2/?)
title: freedom hangs like heaven (2/?)
author:fiveto_midnight
rating: nc-17
fandom: football rps (au)
warnings: (future) language, sex, mentions of alcohol and drugs,
pairing(s): fernando torres/sergio ramos
word count: (chapter) 1.451
disclaimer: nope. don't own a thing here.
notes: woo, so update, haha! this chapter is a bit shorter than the first, but i'm guessing they'll average on about ~2000 words from now on. i just needed this written out, and then it's going to take off. i'm just about to start replying to all the comments on the first chapter, and holy shit guys, i love you, i'm so glad you liked it! ♥ anyway, here goes, hope you enjoy!
summary: and i know just where you are, you're not so far away (and freedom hangs like heaven for everyone)
Fernando recalls younger days, five to seven to nine, five when they used to go to Madrid every summer, where Fernando learned which houses you should run in between and around to get home faster. Where he broke his ankle once, falling from a low chalk wall, passing out only after he’d gotten so shocked he hadn’t realized what even happened. Where the sun tan made his freckles stand out stark on his face and he once tried to rub them away because he suspected it was really dirt until he realized he very well couldn’t, but only make the skin on his nose raw and irritated pink.
Seven when they went only sometimes, when grandma and grandpa would try and call as often as they could, but they just couldn’t go. Ma would stroke the back of his neck and tip his chin upwards and Fernando would realize they probably wouldn’t go there this summer either, and she'd tell him to chin up.
Nine when he witnessed the first big fight between his parents. When he realized Madrid was four years ago and the small white dots of scar tissue and yellowed bruises on his knees and elbows were from then and not for now. Father had sighed wearily when he’d entered Fernando’s room, not talked but merely let his fingers thrust through Fernando’s fringe as he’d walked past and down to the window. His shoulders sinking and his back crooked whereas Fernando had always thought of it as the proudest thing he ever saw. Then he’d understood he’d have to be a big boy from now on.
Fernando remembers all of it as the truck rumbles through the reclusive, dry scenery canting highway 58. He stares out the window with his knees spread out, legs lazily dangling off of the seat.
“So, why you goin’ to Ford City?” the driver asks, voice gruff, rough.
Fernando glances at him, sees years of doing only this, out studied lines at the corners of his eyes and a five o’clock shadow grown thick.
“I’m going down to Mexico, I’m just passing through.”
“Why Mexico?”
And Fernando thinks if he knew, but alas he doesn’t. And maybe that’s for the best. He follows the endless line of street lights that follow the road wherever it turns and twists with his gaze, sees them like fireflies underneath the black sky.
“Why not?” he replies instead, shrugs. The driver snorts beside him.
“You’re okay, kid. Wish I could’ve had your determination when I was your age,” and it strikes something inside Fernando. Something that you can’t see, maybe it’s everywhere, if you map out all of his veins, maybe you can see it. He doesn’t know, he just feels it.
He looks at the driver, contemplating him. He doesn’t say anything, chooses to let it be, but inside he says do it, do something, go away, hijack this fucking truck and break boundaries. It’s what life’s for.
He falls asleep with his cheek pressed against the cool glass of his window. Streets of Philadelphia provides a soothing background soundtrack.
The next truck stop they arrive at is awake at its best. Fernando plucks with the corner of a dollar bill and stretches, pops his neck and rolls his shoulder as he hops out of the truck. Discomfort is only the beginning, but he tries not to think much of it.
It’s around six am and the sun is out and illuminating the naked desert ahead of them, grey yellow dusty in the morning. A light breeze is whipping against Fernando’s cheeks and he rubs tiredness out of one eye before sauntering after the driver into the restaurant.
It smells of grease and bacon, and Fernando can’t stop himself before he orders a big breakfast.
The driver is chatting up some others, probably co-workers; however that seems to work in the line of business, sitting by a table and discussing by a cup of coffee and a dry sandwich. Fernando slumps down by the front disc, spinning lightly on his chair and regarding the place as he waits.
“Anything interesting out there, in the wide room?” he looks up, surprised, mind still too deep into comatose sleep to pick up at everything around him. It’s a boy, small and with thin wrists and sharp fingers, chin in one palm as he peeks up on Fernando who is inevitably taller. He looks young, sixteen or so maybe.
Fernando gives him a once over, down to the plate where he’s poking around the food on his plate with a fork. He raises an eyebrow, “More interesting than what you seem to think of your food, I guess.”
The boy considers him, like he’s contemplating laughing at the subtle jab, or brush it off.
In the end, his face brightens, but he doesn’t outright laugh. Something seems to click in his eyes, like they’re suddenly on the same page, the same line.
“I wasn’t all that hungry.”
“Ah.”
There’s a brief pause, in which the murmur of the conversation stemming from around the room gets more hushed as more leave, and the boy’s fork clatters against his plate when he drops it from between his fingertips. Fernando looks to it once again, but chooses not to comment on the mushrooms shoved into a low pile on the farthest edge.
He runs two fingers through his short cropped hair, thick and black, eyes much the same, never once off Fernando’s face.
“So, what’re you doing here? Doesn’t seem like you exactly… belong here,” he asks, head tipped to the side.
Fernando’s food arrives, and he wastes no time as he digs in. There’s an almost smile on the boy’s face when he answers in between chewing, voice throaty and thick, “I’m going to Mexico. And you don’t seem all at home out here either.”
“Mexico?”
Fernando nods, cutting his eggs up in fine pieces.
“Where?”
When Fernando can’t answer he merely shrugs. The boy laughs now, and it’s bright and finally there is something about him that mirrors the youngish cheekbones and smooth upper lip.
“Fàbregas, get yer ass outta here, we got a deadline to work with!”
Fernando looks on, surprisedly, as the boy slips out of his seat swiftly without another word, boots dirty and where they used to be black are now grey, thudding as he hits the floor. A cap is dangling in his belt, and he grimaces as he puts it on, holes and tears and stains and everything.
“Maybe I’ll see you there then, somewhere in Mexico!” he says, as he bounces away towards the exit, backwards and smile tipping over to the side when Fernando waves, still not quite clear on what has happened.
They follow the road all day and when the sun sinks below the horizon and dusk is purple and a bit of pink Fernando has managed to argue himself to (although the argument itself isn’t really an argument) putting on one of his cassettes.
“You gonna break my radio? That’s all I have kid, better be careful,” Fernando wets his lips as he tries again, unsuccessful with getting the tape to fit into the player that seems all too thin. All too new.
“How old is she anyway? You got this new gear she can’t be old,” Fernando mutters, trying again to angle the tape differently, not hiding the peck of frustration in his voice.
The driver laughs, rowdy, patting the wheel. He shoves at Fernando’s shoulder lightly, plucking the tape from his determined grip and surveying it. He gives it back to Fernando with a light pat on his wrist.
“Kid, if you’re gonna live back in the 80’s, that’s fine with me, it was a fine decade, but this girl’s of the 90’s, you can’t fit that inside any radio of mine.”
Fernando huffs, but he’s smiling, and leans back into his seat. He mock salutes the driver, pointing to the radio.
“Then at least hook me up with some decent music, I’m not dealin’ with any kind of bubble gum music.”
In the end they drive along to Rockin’ in the free World as twilight turns to night and the sky becomes black, and that’s fine by Fernando because it’s from ’89, and Neil Young is better than any Backstreet Boys any day.
The highway stretches still and old ahead of them, quiet and going where Fernando hasn’t even read about in school. To all the obscure towns he never learnt about because he didn’t need that.
He counts the stars he can see upon the sky, from here he can.
And maybe he dreams of San Francisco bay and college and the view from his window down on the backyard, maybe he does. But when he wakes in the morning it’s nothing he remembers but vaguely, so he might not have.
author:fiveto_midnight
rating: nc-17
fandom: football rps (au)
warnings: (future) language, sex, mentions of alcohol and drugs,
pairing(s): fernando torres/sergio ramos
word count: (chapter) 1.451
disclaimer: nope. don't own a thing here.
notes: woo, so update, haha! this chapter is a bit shorter than the first, but i'm guessing they'll average on about ~2000 words from now on. i just needed this written out, and then it's going to take off. i'm just about to start replying to all the comments on the first chapter, and holy shit guys, i love you, i'm so glad you liked it! ♥ anyway, here goes, hope you enjoy!
summary: and i know just where you are, you're not so far away (and freedom hangs like heaven for everyone)
Fernando recalls younger days, five to seven to nine, five when they used to go to Madrid every summer, where Fernando learned which houses you should run in between and around to get home faster. Where he broke his ankle once, falling from a low chalk wall, passing out only after he’d gotten so shocked he hadn’t realized what even happened. Where the sun tan made his freckles stand out stark on his face and he once tried to rub them away because he suspected it was really dirt until he realized he very well couldn’t, but only make the skin on his nose raw and irritated pink.
Seven when they went only sometimes, when grandma and grandpa would try and call as often as they could, but they just couldn’t go. Ma would stroke the back of his neck and tip his chin upwards and Fernando would realize they probably wouldn’t go there this summer either, and she'd tell him to chin up.
Nine when he witnessed the first big fight between his parents. When he realized Madrid was four years ago and the small white dots of scar tissue and yellowed bruises on his knees and elbows were from then and not for now. Father had sighed wearily when he’d entered Fernando’s room, not talked but merely let his fingers thrust through Fernando’s fringe as he’d walked past and down to the window. His shoulders sinking and his back crooked whereas Fernando had always thought of it as the proudest thing he ever saw. Then he’d understood he’d have to be a big boy from now on.
Fernando remembers all of it as the truck rumbles through the reclusive, dry scenery canting highway 58. He stares out the window with his knees spread out, legs lazily dangling off of the seat.
“So, why you goin’ to Ford City?” the driver asks, voice gruff, rough.
Fernando glances at him, sees years of doing only this, out studied lines at the corners of his eyes and a five o’clock shadow grown thick.
“I’m going down to Mexico, I’m just passing through.”
“Why Mexico?”
And Fernando thinks if he knew, but alas he doesn’t. And maybe that’s for the best. He follows the endless line of street lights that follow the road wherever it turns and twists with his gaze, sees them like fireflies underneath the black sky.
“Why not?” he replies instead, shrugs. The driver snorts beside him.
“You’re okay, kid. Wish I could’ve had your determination when I was your age,” and it strikes something inside Fernando. Something that you can’t see, maybe it’s everywhere, if you map out all of his veins, maybe you can see it. He doesn’t know, he just feels it.
He looks at the driver, contemplating him. He doesn’t say anything, chooses to let it be, but inside he says do it, do something, go away, hijack this fucking truck and break boundaries. It’s what life’s for.
He falls asleep with his cheek pressed against the cool glass of his window. Streets of Philadelphia provides a soothing background soundtrack.
The next truck stop they arrive at is awake at its best. Fernando plucks with the corner of a dollar bill and stretches, pops his neck and rolls his shoulder as he hops out of the truck. Discomfort is only the beginning, but he tries not to think much of it.
It’s around six am and the sun is out and illuminating the naked desert ahead of them, grey yellow dusty in the morning. A light breeze is whipping against Fernando’s cheeks and he rubs tiredness out of one eye before sauntering after the driver into the restaurant.
It smells of grease and bacon, and Fernando can’t stop himself before he orders a big breakfast.
The driver is chatting up some others, probably co-workers; however that seems to work in the line of business, sitting by a table and discussing by a cup of coffee and a dry sandwich. Fernando slumps down by the front disc, spinning lightly on his chair and regarding the place as he waits.
“Anything interesting out there, in the wide room?” he looks up, surprised, mind still too deep into comatose sleep to pick up at everything around him. It’s a boy, small and with thin wrists and sharp fingers, chin in one palm as he peeks up on Fernando who is inevitably taller. He looks young, sixteen or so maybe.
Fernando gives him a once over, down to the plate where he’s poking around the food on his plate with a fork. He raises an eyebrow, “More interesting than what you seem to think of your food, I guess.”
The boy considers him, like he’s contemplating laughing at the subtle jab, or brush it off.
In the end, his face brightens, but he doesn’t outright laugh. Something seems to click in his eyes, like they’re suddenly on the same page, the same line.
“I wasn’t all that hungry.”
“Ah.”
There’s a brief pause, in which the murmur of the conversation stemming from around the room gets more hushed as more leave, and the boy’s fork clatters against his plate when he drops it from between his fingertips. Fernando looks to it once again, but chooses not to comment on the mushrooms shoved into a low pile on the farthest edge.
He runs two fingers through his short cropped hair, thick and black, eyes much the same, never once off Fernando’s face.
“So, what’re you doing here? Doesn’t seem like you exactly… belong here,” he asks, head tipped to the side.
Fernando’s food arrives, and he wastes no time as he digs in. There’s an almost smile on the boy’s face when he answers in between chewing, voice throaty and thick, “I’m going to Mexico. And you don’t seem all at home out here either.”
“Mexico?”
Fernando nods, cutting his eggs up in fine pieces.
“Where?”
When Fernando can’t answer he merely shrugs. The boy laughs now, and it’s bright and finally there is something about him that mirrors the youngish cheekbones and smooth upper lip.
“Fàbregas, get yer ass outta here, we got a deadline to work with!”
Fernando looks on, surprisedly, as the boy slips out of his seat swiftly without another word, boots dirty and where they used to be black are now grey, thudding as he hits the floor. A cap is dangling in his belt, and he grimaces as he puts it on, holes and tears and stains and everything.
“Maybe I’ll see you there then, somewhere in Mexico!” he says, as he bounces away towards the exit, backwards and smile tipping over to the side when Fernando waves, still not quite clear on what has happened.
They follow the road all day and when the sun sinks below the horizon and dusk is purple and a bit of pink Fernando has managed to argue himself to (although the argument itself isn’t really an argument) putting on one of his cassettes.
“You gonna break my radio? That’s all I have kid, better be careful,” Fernando wets his lips as he tries again, unsuccessful with getting the tape to fit into the player that seems all too thin. All too new.
“How old is she anyway? You got this new gear she can’t be old,” Fernando mutters, trying again to angle the tape differently, not hiding the peck of frustration in his voice.
The driver laughs, rowdy, patting the wheel. He shoves at Fernando’s shoulder lightly, plucking the tape from his determined grip and surveying it. He gives it back to Fernando with a light pat on his wrist.
“Kid, if you’re gonna live back in the 80’s, that’s fine with me, it was a fine decade, but this girl’s of the 90’s, you can’t fit that inside any radio of mine.”
Fernando huffs, but he’s smiling, and leans back into his seat. He mock salutes the driver, pointing to the radio.
“Then at least hook me up with some decent music, I’m not dealin’ with any kind of bubble gum music.”
In the end they drive along to Rockin’ in the free World as twilight turns to night and the sky becomes black, and that’s fine by Fernando because it’s from ’89, and Neil Young is better than any Backstreet Boys any day.
The highway stretches still and old ahead of them, quiet and going where Fernando hasn’t even read about in school. To all the obscure towns he never learnt about because he didn’t need that.
He counts the stars he can see upon the sky, from here he can.
And maybe he dreams of San Francisco bay and college and the view from his window down on the backyard, maybe he does. But when he wakes in the morning it’s nothing he remembers but vaguely, so he might not have.