rps: lie in the sound: fernando torres/sergio ramos: (1/1)
title; lie in the sound
author; fiveto_midnight
rating; pg
fandom; football rps
warnings; not much, to be honest
pairing(s); fernando torres/sergio ramos, xabi alonso
word count; 1,372
disclaimer; nope. don't own a thing here.
notes; err, really, this was supposed to come out as a happy celebration thing. I guess listening to kent from ’05 doesn’t really do much for your happy celebration fic though, eh? Yeah, way too much manpain for my liking, but eh, I’m still sort of happy with it I guess. Title from trespassers william’s song.
summary; jag höll en hand då mot din varma hud/du sa, ”stäng din dörr, vi har något att reda ut”
i pressed a hand then/against your warm skin/you said/close your door/we’ve got something to talk about
Amidst all the celebrating after the world cup victory, all the kind of scarlet shaded red and summer sun yellow of his home flag, champagne baths, afternoon sun lapping at the buildings of Madrid, and all the shared joy of the players and Spain, Fernando knows it’ll come to an end.
The weariness of the last twenty four hours is still there with him as he places one foot on the railing of the bus, slippery with spilled alcohol, and rests the right side of his body.
Sergio is away somewhere behind him, wandering around the bus, coming up for a surprise photo or two, sharing beers with those who doesn’t want to share with him.
Despite that today, he can feel all of his muscles pulling when he shifts, he laughs with Xabi who comes up behind him. Slinging an arm around his shoulders and pulling him in for a sort of half hug.
In the short moment, he leans his head against Xabi’s shoulder, warm skin soaking through his jersey, feeling drained and just happy, for all of them.
Proud, but he just wants to sleep this wear and tear feeling off.
“You’re tired.” Xabi releases him, knowing gaze swiping across Fernando’s face.
He shrugs, half smile on. “Is it really such a big deal?”
“I guess. Here.” He hands a newly opened beer to him, something in his eyes that makes Fernando laugh.
It’s nice, and he’s happy. Can’t quite understand it’s happening, after all. They’re a strong team, but it’s still something about winning something so big that never quite settles in until days, weeks, later.
Like the dull pound of a memory you can’t quite grasp, only a million times the delirious feeling.
“That’ll put you to sleep sooner or later, but take it easy, chico.” Xabi claps his shoulder as he takes off, shouting and when Fernando looks after him, he steals a drape of Spanish flag and ties around his shoulders, winking at Fernando.
He turns around again, shaking his head, taking a long swig of his beer. The bus has come to a brief stop, and he throws his head back, taking in what is screams and laughter and wonder and flashes of cameras.
Lets it wash over him; wipe his mind from everything for the brief minute. Lets go of aches and the ripple of pain in the back of his thigh and the slight strain in his shoulders and shoulder blades.
The instant long fingers bunch up in his jersey at his waist and a nose is pressed to the back of his neck, he knows it’s Sergio.
He leans back ever so slightly, for once using Sergio to lean back on and take the weight off his feet.
The Sevillan mumbles something against his neck, indistinguishable and Fernando raises an eyebrow, twisting his head to look at him.
“You’re exhausted, Fer.” He says, brow furrowing even as he sways gently to liquor and the bumps in the road underneath the vehicle.
Fernando smiles, almost not there shake of his head. “I’m fine, all this celebration is just, it’s big. We won, I mean, of course it’s huge.”
“Doesn’t mean you have to look like you haven’t slept for three days.” He retaliates, cocking an eyebrow.
Fernando just sighs, but he’s still smiling. “We’re all tired, Sergio. You’ll drop like a rock when we get to the hotel yourself; you’re just not letting it on.”
Sergio makes a psht sound under his breath, loosening his grip on Fernando’s shirt, but continues to rest his palms against the dip of his back.
“So you are letting it on?”
“That’s not my point. I’m really fine, Sese. Don’t think for a second that I’m not happy being here. We won; it just hasn’t sunk in yet.” He replies, honest and looking up at the sky that is clear water blue and revels in just how warm it is being where he is.
“Yeah, okay.” Sergio murmurs, pressing his lips briefly against Fernando’s neck. The feel of it comforting.
Sergio doesn’t move, however. Staying in close proximity, fingertips on Fernando’s hip, in his shirt, at his shoulder, for the rest of the ride.
Fernando doesn’t hook up with the majority of the team afterwards, when they’re going out. He looks down at his feet, swiftly up again and says that he needs to rest his injury.
He receives one armed hugs, brief brushes of lips against his cheek, back dunks, and Sergio who looks reluctant.
They’re up in their shared room, Fernando on his bed, back resting against the head board, a dull pound of sleep in his head and on his eyelids.
Sergio is peeling off his clothes, making noise for himself as he rifles through his bags for passable clothes to go out in.
Once in a while he peeks his head up to look at Fernando, something he pretends not to notice.
“You-“
Fernando cuts Sergio off, because no, he doesn’t want Sergio to miss out on what may be a once in a lifetime celebration, for him. “I told you, I’m fine. Besides, you deserve to go out. You were out there the whole time.”
“Yeah, it’s just, it might be something serious, you know? And you deserve to be out there to. Besides, you’re gonna be here alone.”
Fernando huffs a chuckle at the last words, seeing Sergio’s frown from the corner of his eye.
“Go on, Sergio. I won’t die without you here for a couple of hours. Go celebrate for me, okay?”
There’s something loosening (and tightening, that Fernando pretends he doesn’t notice) in the Sevillan’s face at Fernando’s words, and he stands up, pushing hair back and grinning. “Never know about that, maybe you will.”
It’s a tone that is supposed to be teasing, but in the end, it comes out soft and hushed to Fernando.
Comes out like you’re leaving soon, again, and he doesn’t want to think that.
He wills his body up off the bed, soreness and something like sadness pushed to the side as he leans in to pull Sergio in for a hug.
Sergio is shirtless, all skin that is earth tan with warmth and pulse as he presses into Fernando, his palm on his neck, fingers splayed in his hair.
“Yeah, maybe I will.” Fernando breathes into the juncture of Sergio’s shoulder, feeling something unravel in his chest.
Sergio laughs, digging his fingers into his scalp briefly. “Let’s hope not.”
It’s somewhere around midnight, Fernando thinks, when Sergio slips in through the door. He thinks of smiling at it, because Sergio is a loud drunk, yet he makes an effort to be quiet now.
There’s shuffling, soft thumps in the carpeted floor, a rustling of clothes inching closer that is all too familiar not to be lulled back into sleep by.
The brief disturbance of a dull shine beckoning on his eyelids from the direction of the bathroom, and the vague rush of a water tap through a wall.
But it’s still easy to fall through, keep his face relaxed, to feel like he’s drifting, too tired to open his eyes.
Even more so when there’s the deep dip in the mattress of Sergio cramming himself into the one man bed, almost feverish against Fernando’s bare back.
Sergio’s chest against his shoulder blades, muscles shifting underneath skin, and it’s almost too easy to tip his head back into the Sevillan’s shoulder.
Lean back and soak it up like the underlying meaning is that it’s supposed to mean something.
How the thoughts fit into the haze of sleep gritting on his mind, Fernando can’t quite understand.
Because it’s always been about Sergio staying and Fernando leaving. About Sergio saying nothing because it’s already too much, and Fernando saying too little because he doesn’t want to have to carry too little on his shoulders.
“Don’t think so much, Fernando.” Sergio mumbles from behind him. He doesn’t quite catch the you’ll thank me in the morning, but somehow it still registers.
“I’m still staying for a few days.” He replies, quiet and thick.
“Good.” Sergio says, pressing chapped, dry lips against the upper cords of Fernando’s spine, and maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be, really.
author; fiveto_midnight
rating; pg
fandom; football rps
warnings; not much, to be honest
pairing(s); fernando torres/sergio ramos, xabi alonso
word count; 1,372
disclaimer; nope. don't own a thing here.
notes; err, really, this was supposed to come out as a happy celebration thing. I guess listening to kent from ’05 doesn’t really do much for your happy celebration fic though, eh? Yeah, way too much manpain for my liking, but eh, I’m still sort of happy with it I guess. Title from trespassers william’s song.
summary; jag höll en hand då mot din varma hud/du sa, ”stäng din dörr, vi har något att reda ut”
i pressed a hand then/against your warm skin/you said/close your door/we’ve got something to talk about
Amidst all the celebrating after the world cup victory, all the kind of scarlet shaded red and summer sun yellow of his home flag, champagne baths, afternoon sun lapping at the buildings of Madrid, and all the shared joy of the players and Spain, Fernando knows it’ll come to an end.
The weariness of the last twenty four hours is still there with him as he places one foot on the railing of the bus, slippery with spilled alcohol, and rests the right side of his body.
Sergio is away somewhere behind him, wandering around the bus, coming up for a surprise photo or two, sharing beers with those who doesn’t want to share with him.
Despite that today, he can feel all of his muscles pulling when he shifts, he laughs with Xabi who comes up behind him. Slinging an arm around his shoulders and pulling him in for a sort of half hug.
In the short moment, he leans his head against Xabi’s shoulder, warm skin soaking through his jersey, feeling drained and just happy, for all of them.
Proud, but he just wants to sleep this wear and tear feeling off.
“You’re tired.” Xabi releases him, knowing gaze swiping across Fernando’s face.
He shrugs, half smile on. “Is it really such a big deal?”
“I guess. Here.” He hands a newly opened beer to him, something in his eyes that makes Fernando laugh.
It’s nice, and he’s happy. Can’t quite understand it’s happening, after all. They’re a strong team, but it’s still something about winning something so big that never quite settles in until days, weeks, later.
Like the dull pound of a memory you can’t quite grasp, only a million times the delirious feeling.
“That’ll put you to sleep sooner or later, but take it easy, chico.” Xabi claps his shoulder as he takes off, shouting and when Fernando looks after him, he steals a drape of Spanish flag and ties around his shoulders, winking at Fernando.
He turns around again, shaking his head, taking a long swig of his beer. The bus has come to a brief stop, and he throws his head back, taking in what is screams and laughter and wonder and flashes of cameras.
Lets it wash over him; wipe his mind from everything for the brief minute. Lets go of aches and the ripple of pain in the back of his thigh and the slight strain in his shoulders and shoulder blades.
The instant long fingers bunch up in his jersey at his waist and a nose is pressed to the back of his neck, he knows it’s Sergio.
He leans back ever so slightly, for once using Sergio to lean back on and take the weight off his feet.
The Sevillan mumbles something against his neck, indistinguishable and Fernando raises an eyebrow, twisting his head to look at him.
“You’re exhausted, Fer.” He says, brow furrowing even as he sways gently to liquor and the bumps in the road underneath the vehicle.
Fernando smiles, almost not there shake of his head. “I’m fine, all this celebration is just, it’s big. We won, I mean, of course it’s huge.”
“Doesn’t mean you have to look like you haven’t slept for three days.” He retaliates, cocking an eyebrow.
Fernando just sighs, but he’s still smiling. “We’re all tired, Sergio. You’ll drop like a rock when we get to the hotel yourself; you’re just not letting it on.”
Sergio makes a psht sound under his breath, loosening his grip on Fernando’s shirt, but continues to rest his palms against the dip of his back.
“So you are letting it on?”
“That’s not my point. I’m really fine, Sese. Don’t think for a second that I’m not happy being here. We won; it just hasn’t sunk in yet.” He replies, honest and looking up at the sky that is clear water blue and revels in just how warm it is being where he is.
“Yeah, okay.” Sergio murmurs, pressing his lips briefly against Fernando’s neck. The feel of it comforting.
Sergio doesn’t move, however. Staying in close proximity, fingertips on Fernando’s hip, in his shirt, at his shoulder, for the rest of the ride.
Fernando doesn’t hook up with the majority of the team afterwards, when they’re going out. He looks down at his feet, swiftly up again and says that he needs to rest his injury.
He receives one armed hugs, brief brushes of lips against his cheek, back dunks, and Sergio who looks reluctant.
They’re up in their shared room, Fernando on his bed, back resting against the head board, a dull pound of sleep in his head and on his eyelids.
Sergio is peeling off his clothes, making noise for himself as he rifles through his bags for passable clothes to go out in.
Once in a while he peeks his head up to look at Fernando, something he pretends not to notice.
“You-“
Fernando cuts Sergio off, because no, he doesn’t want Sergio to miss out on what may be a once in a lifetime celebration, for him. “I told you, I’m fine. Besides, you deserve to go out. You were out there the whole time.”
“Yeah, it’s just, it might be something serious, you know? And you deserve to be out there to. Besides, you’re gonna be here alone.”
Fernando huffs a chuckle at the last words, seeing Sergio’s frown from the corner of his eye.
“Go on, Sergio. I won’t die without you here for a couple of hours. Go celebrate for me, okay?”
There’s something loosening (and tightening, that Fernando pretends he doesn’t notice) in the Sevillan’s face at Fernando’s words, and he stands up, pushing hair back and grinning. “Never know about that, maybe you will.”
It’s a tone that is supposed to be teasing, but in the end, it comes out soft and hushed to Fernando.
Comes out like you’re leaving soon, again, and he doesn’t want to think that.
He wills his body up off the bed, soreness and something like sadness pushed to the side as he leans in to pull Sergio in for a hug.
Sergio is shirtless, all skin that is earth tan with warmth and pulse as he presses into Fernando, his palm on his neck, fingers splayed in his hair.
“Yeah, maybe I will.” Fernando breathes into the juncture of Sergio’s shoulder, feeling something unravel in his chest.
Sergio laughs, digging his fingers into his scalp briefly. “Let’s hope not.”
It’s somewhere around midnight, Fernando thinks, when Sergio slips in through the door. He thinks of smiling at it, because Sergio is a loud drunk, yet he makes an effort to be quiet now.
There’s shuffling, soft thumps in the carpeted floor, a rustling of clothes inching closer that is all too familiar not to be lulled back into sleep by.
The brief disturbance of a dull shine beckoning on his eyelids from the direction of the bathroom, and the vague rush of a water tap through a wall.
But it’s still easy to fall through, keep his face relaxed, to feel like he’s drifting, too tired to open his eyes.
Even more so when there’s the deep dip in the mattress of Sergio cramming himself into the one man bed, almost feverish against Fernando’s bare back.
Sergio’s chest against his shoulder blades, muscles shifting underneath skin, and it’s almost too easy to tip his head back into the Sevillan’s shoulder.
Lean back and soak it up like the underlying meaning is that it’s supposed to mean something.
How the thoughts fit into the haze of sleep gritting on his mind, Fernando can’t quite understand.
Because it’s always been about Sergio staying and Fernando leaving. About Sergio saying nothing because it’s already too much, and Fernando saying too little because he doesn’t want to have to carry too little on his shoulders.
“Don’t think so much, Fernando.” Sergio mumbles from behind him. He doesn’t quite catch the you’ll thank me in the morning, but somehow it still registers.
“I’m still staying for a few days.” He replies, quiet and thick.
“Good.” Sergio says, pressing chapped, dry lips against the upper cords of Fernando’s spine, and maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be, really.