rps: somewhere in between this moment and the end: fernando torres/sergio ramos: (1/1)
title; somewhere in between this moment and the end
rating; pg-13
fandom; football rps (au)
warnings; not much that doesn’t go unspoken, (booze, language, making out, you know)
pairing(s); fernando torres/sergio ramos, implied iker casillas/cesc fabregas, david villa, steven gerrard, jesús navas, rené,
word count; 5.600
disclaimer; nope. don't own a thing here.
notes; come on, you all knew this was coming. How can you be in a fandom and not write this au (high school/college/uni)? Yeah I know, we’ve seen it countless of times, why not one more? (god I have too much to write and I don’t even know about this lmao) special cameos by steven gerrard and jesús navas, because, you know, it was in order. And apparently no, I can’t write higher ratings for this pairing, it’s impossible, or something. Sorry y’all, pg-13 it is for now. unbetad, once again, argh I could think about getting myself someone who’d want to beta football fic nudge now hanna not later nudge title from rob thomas’ mockingbird!
summary; “maybe you and me got lost somewhere, we can't move on we can't stay here
well maybe we've just had enough, maybe we ain’t meant for this love”
The year’s just begun, something you can just feel.
It’s not exactly new in the sense that it feels unfamiliar, you’re nervous, sweaty palms and the wrong turn after three cases of stairs when looking for your room.
It’s exciting, the newness of going away like this, studying away from home, not continuing in Sevilla after college.
Of course, it’s hard too, Sergio misses his family whenever he goes away. He’ll never not miss Sevilla, his mother, his siblings.
And he does make the wrong turn across campus sometimes, looking for his dorms.
“We’re going out tonight, you’re still on?” Iker asks as Sergio finds him after lunch, slinging an arm around his shoulders.
“Of course, you think I’d miss it?” Iker nods, grinning over his shoulder as he pushes Sergio away.
“I’ve got a discourse in History, gotta hurry,” he explains.
Sergio claps his shoulder, “I’ll see you at five!” He says, before doing a half turn and maybe he’ll get it right to Sociology today.
As it turns out, Sergio takes left instead of right for what has to be the eleventh time already this week, and turns up at the library instead.
It’s fine - he’s ten minutes due still, but it’s as frustrating as the previous ten times getting that specific turn wrong.
He’s about to turn back - in fact, there’s nothing that’s really stopping Sergio from going back, doing right.
But every time he’s briefly been in and out of the library, there’s been the same blonde guy studying, there. He switches tables every time, but Sergio is relatively sure he’d recognize him anywhere on campus.
Blonde, pale, skin dotted with so many freckles it’d be impossible to count them all, clean cut cheekbones and pursued lips.
He suddenly looks up and around, scratching the back of his neck, before bowing down over his books again.
Sergio takes one look at the generous time table on the wall, and realizes he’ll be late if he stands there for any longer. Besides, who does that, anyway?
“So, I’ve heard you’re following Fernando around, Sergio?” Villa says, amused, leaning over the table to the left of his computer, ceasing his tapping.
Sergio frowns, taking his eyes off of the few lines he’s managed to dot down on his own English course assignment. “Gago? Man, I haven’t seen him for days.”
Villa laughs, a deep sound as he leans back into his seat, rolling his shoulders free from tension underneath his white Adidas track.
“Not that Fernando. Torres. You know, pale and blonde, freckles?”
Sergio averts his eyes briefly, but cocks an eyebrow and snorts, bit too softly, “So it’s your job to keep tabs on me?”
“Relax, Gitano. No need to get stingy.” Although there’s a certain glint of something in Villa’s eyes as Sergio meets his eyes before Villa goes back to tapping out his essay -whatever that is again-, quietly humming along to some famous pop song.
Sergio mirrors it; tapping up the word processor again, skimming through the few sentences of rough grammar and what’s surely pretty horrible spelling.
He almost writes the entirely wrong thing as the name sticks to his mind like it was fly paper, twice.
“I can’t place him where I always go,” he mutters, but wills himself back to concentrating, nevertheless.
Villa’s small smile is felt all the way up Sergio’s spine and forth to his temples, when he realizes there’s another ten minutes add on to the all nighter he inevitably has to pull here to get done.
He has to skip out on the night out with Iker, which is just typical for Sergio’s luck.
Do this, do that, hand this in at the fifteenth, get in time for this discourse, sign up for this pass/fail before semester is over, don’t forget about that game.
On the whole, Sergio imagined university to be quite stressful, but not quite this stressful.
Fine, so maybe he did, but there is a very big difference between imagining and getting intimate with the real thing.
He sighs, palming his forehead, rubbing the sleep out of his left eye before burying himself in books again.
There is just something about Fridays that ultimately makes Sergio sick of sitting in on one.
There’s been some traffic through his dorms tonight, some steadily leaking through his door.
Iker stopped by to drop his bags and books earlier, an eyebrow immediately raised at Sergio sitting parked by his laptop, soft flamenco on his iPod.
“You know Sergio, somewhere you really have to stop spending all your time at girls’ you’ve got no interest in what so ever, and start getting in time for your classes,” he said, tone unimpressed as he dropped down to Sergio’s right, pulling an ear bud out of his ear in favor of listening.
Sergio looked up at him, smirk building in the corners of his mouth, “but there’d be no fun in that, right?”
Iker sighed, but there’d been a smile on his face as he did, “you’ve never listened before, so I suppose you won’t now, either. Are you still coming out tonight?”
Sergio moaned, because no, he wouldn’t be coming with him, and that’s not something he liked to admit.
And because all the same, Iker had actually had a point.
Not that he didn’t usually - Sergio couldn’t count Iker’s good points on ten fingers, period - but this time, it really is frustrating.
“No, I have to finish this. Will probably stay up all night to do it, too,” he threw himself back against the wall, the collision with the back of his head giving a dull thump.
“Suit yourself, hope you enjoy it,” Iker grinned, fingers briefly combing through Sergio’s hair and scratching down his temple before he stood, crossing the room and grabbing a towel discarded across his bed and before heading into the bathroom.
Who wouldn’t take the shit out of your situation right now, Ramos, Sergio argues with himself, where he is, still sitting by his books, hours later.
There’re hollow echoes of feet in the corridor outside, and having music on only served as a distraction.
But it seems the better option now, when Sergio’s tongue is practically itching with swears to throw at the guys outside his room.
Hypocritical as it seems, a man needs his peace every once in a while.
And so much for that.
The door is carefully locked from the outside when Sergio irritably forcefully, tries the handle, brow furrowed.
To add on to the list of things that does not go Sergio Ramos’ way tonight, of course it does not open, the hinges whining and refusing to go smoothly when he practically has to kick down the door to get it open.
Anything remotely annoyed and in style with shut the fuck up dies on his lips, promptly, when he almost gets hands on - and that pretty damn literally, flitters surprisedly across his mind - with Fernando Torres’ pale, loosely curled fist, drawn back and probably just about to knock.
“You are-not Stevie,” he says, eyebrows curved upwards on his forehead, but he drops his fist in an almost sheepish manner.
“Steve-oh, Gerrard? No, he uhm, he’s got the room to the left.”
The way Stevie sounds on Fernando’s tongue is almost foreign, and Sergio has to rein himself in as to not trip over the pronunciation.
Fernando is nodding, backing up, when something seems to hit him.
“You’re, I mean-I’ve seen you a lot at the library,” he adverts his eyes for a fraction of a moment.
“Ramos, Sergio.” Sergio replies, almost too fast, but Fernando looks up, and there’s a small, slightly awkward tilt to his lips as he replies: “Fernando, Torres.”
Curling up at the back of Sergio’s own, Fernando’s fingers are long and pale, splashed with freckles.
“So, I should probably, you know, get going. Before anyone hurts themselves in there.”
There’s a loud voice announcing something indistinguishable in British from inside the next door, and Fernando winces gingerly when it’s followed by something colliding heavily with the door.
Sergio gives a loud laugh. “Well, if you need any help with them, I’m right here.”
Fernando draws his hand back hesitantly, nails pressing against the skin at the back of Sergio’s hand, but he looks thankful as he nods.
Sergio doesn’t close the door for a good minute, even as Fernando has shut the door softly behind him, neck twisted around to glance at Sergio as he does.
He shakes his head, scratching at the back of his neck.
There’s a sudden drill of noise behind him, something getting caught in the space between ringing and falling silent.
His computer has frozen up.
Sergio throws himself back in, towards the computer, where a blue screen pops against the screwed down fluorescent lightning.
“No, nononono, fuck!” He curses, frantically pressing the power button several times. It doesn’t shut off.
He slumps back into the chair, hooking a strand of hair behind his ear, squinting at the computer as it slowly restarts.
Well, if he ever had reason to scream something like bloody murder, it’d be now. Life hates Sergio, and Sergio hates Microsoft.
Next Friday, Sergio does not sit in.
While the essay remains gone, trapped in what’s surely limbo between Microsoft Word ’03 and ctrl + shift + delete, he’s just not missing out on next Friday.
It’s not the first essay Sergio hasn’t turned in, and he inquires - to himself, mostly - that it won’t be the last either. And it’s not like it’s something that he’d hang his life up on, so it’s fine. Mostly.
Someone on campus throws a party, figures it’s easier than rendering into town, and the first years seem thankful enough, most of them not having to use fake ID’s to get into a place that has booze and loud as fuck music at the end of the week.
Pipita gets him beer, telling campus tales and leaning over their table animatedly as Sergio leans back, laughing loudly, an arm slung around Albiol’s shoulders, feeling ever so slightly tipsy, too warm and itchy in his clothes.
In the corner of his eye he sees flashes of blonde, but it’s never Fernando Torres’ back of head he’s looking at when he turns.
It isn’t for most of the night, as more people cram into the couch and chairs around the low coffee table Sergio is parked at.
He gets up at one point, bottle half empty - or half full, depending on how you look at the evening - with beer and wanders around.
He stumbles upon Sara on his way around and through the coils of students, rests his hand at her shoulder and gives her a brush of lips to the cheek before pointing out their table.
She tilts her head, scrutinizing his face for something, before nodding, letting it go.
“How are you, Sergio?” She asks, face open, pleasant.
“I’m great,” Sergio replies, grinning broadly. Because he is, tired, but it’s not like that isn’t natural to be. Tipsy, another score in the great department.
She squeezes his wrist, smiling and nodding, as she starts to tread through people.
Sergio shrugs to himself, takes another swig of his beer, the urge to shadow his eyes ridiculous, because the light is really low.
The alcohol having accentuated what lights are on, though.
The music starts pulsing heavily, someone cracking up the volume until thoughts are simply blown out the window, fitting in somewhere that’s not here and now.
Sergio likes the mindset of that person, smiling to himself.
That’s when a blonde head is Fernando.
He shows up in Sergio’s periphery vision, looking vaguely disinterested where he’s resting a foot against the wall, arms crossed over a red t-shirt as he talks out of the corner of his mouth to Maxi Rodriguez.
Sergio moves to the left, not noticeably, but hey, enhance what’s already there, he might get lucky.
It’s not like he wouldn’t want there to be anything there, but so far he’s only talked to Fernando once, and hey, it’s not like Sergio only picks people up.
Fernando’s gaze hitch at him, and a smile starts to pluck at the corners of his mouth as he nods his head once in Sergio’s direction. He says something, swift words as he straightens up, to Rodriguez, who also seems to catch sightings of Sergio.
He grins, clapping Fernando’s shoulder, before sauntering away, into the crowd and dim lights.
The heavy, almost sluggish beat strumming through the floorboards continue as they go outside in something like an unspoken agreement.
The song is one Sergio off handedly thinks he knows, but ultimately can’t place.
They’re just outside the host room, Fernando having escaped outside, Sergio just behind him, kicking the door shut in bypassing.
“I doubt the next floor gets much sleep now.” Fernando muses out loud; fingers hooked in his jeans pockets.
Sergio snorts, can feel a loose smile tug at his lips, “they’re all down here man, no one sleeps tonight.”
“I guess so,” Fernando replies, before starting to hum the song lightly under his breath.
Sergio takes another glance at him (notices the way the low light slants in Fernando’s bleached hair, the way the song seems to move to his lips and not the other way around. Mama always did say he had a way with words) because he doesn’t risk it.
Not when Fernando glances back, just as fast, just as briefly, just as packed.
“You know this song?” Sergio asks. Genuinely curious, since it’s fully in English.
Then again he’s not really surprised, seeing as all he’s ever seen the older boy do is hang with Gerrard and the other exchanges, and study for his English course.
Fernando half shrugs a shoulder, something Sergio’s quickly coming to associate with him.
“I’ve heard it a couple of times,” he probably takes notice of Sergio’s raised eyebrow, gives a short laugh “Stevie’s iPod, and occasionally while we’ve been out in Liverpool.”
Sergio’s interest peaks (he doesn’t yet go to where he’s interested in knowing Fernando’s and Steven’s exact relationship, he doesn’t) but at the mention of Fernando having been to Liverpool.
“So, you have been to England?”
Fernando nods, half smile that still manages to look genuine and do things to Sergio on his face.
“I went there to study for two years, before I came here. This is only my first year at this campus.”
“Not alone in it being your first year here then.” Sergio offers to him.
Fernando doesn’t reply directly, but there’s something there as he gives Sergio a full bodied smile, before they’re interrupted by Iker and Cesc.
Sergio lets himself be dragged inside again, only half heartedly, as Fernando waves slightly over his shoulder before crossing the corridor into his own room.
They meet up regularly after that.
Fernando’s English is sharp - well, accentually, not so much, but in terms of knowledge, Sergio admits to being pretty floored - and Sergio’s is horrible.
It’s a natural progression that Sergio asks for his help (“You look like you’re dying, what’s up?” Sergio moans louder, pointing to the stack of papers in front of him, “Man, have you seen this? Fer, no one should have to learn this, I tell you.” Fernando laughs quietly, Sergio glances at him, gaze catching on thin lips and freckles stretching over rows of bleach white teeth. “It’s really not that bad, I promise. And if you ever, you know, need any help, I’m right here,” his smile broadens, and Sergio admits to a laugh) and Fernando helps.
He’s a quiet guy, wears sweaters when Sergio asks how can you do that in this weather, and shrugs, something in his eyes when he admits that he’s really not used to the climate shift yet, even if it’s been months since he came back to Spain.
“Liverpool is mostly cold; it’s not that easy to shift regularly,” he says, a half tilt to his lips that makes Sergio frown.
He calls Fernando up on the regularly thing, and he explains that he’s not really staying in Spain. Liverpool is where he lives.
They’ve known each other for a month and a half, and it still makes something unpleasant hitch up in Sergio’s stomach. He feels sentimental in a way that’s almost alien in these situations.
When he leaves after Linguistics on Wednesday, he ventures out on the school area, vaguely chilly November wind whipping around the trees, grey sky witnessing of rain.
He calls René then, his brother always having been good with advice whereas Sergio’s been less than great at it, and it’s the first person he can think of to talk to.
“How are you, all of you?” Sergio asks into the speaker, free hand driven deep into his pocket, fingers tugging at a loose thread absently.
René shifts the phone, saying “It’s great,” while Sergio says “Good, great.”
“But you aren’t.” Sergio’s brother concludes, tone to the point. Because that’s how they are, in his family, and Sergio shakes his head, even though that’s not really a great reply to someone in a phone conversation.
“I guess not,” he admits.
Because Fernando’s a third year, he’s got less than a year left. And there’s something that’s just clicked between them, and he wouldn’t want to let that go to waste.
He likes Fernando, likes a lot about him.
Not just his English, or the way he laughs, or his high cut cheek bones and freckles, or his subtle dryness that’s there sometimes.
Not even just for the way Fernando is familiar and at the same time not, or for the way they can talk football even though Fernando is an Atlético fan, and Sergio will always stay true to Sevilla.
Hell, for all Sergio knows Fernando is great because he wears sweaters when it’s hot enough outside for shorts and a t-shirt, even though the truth behind it is the reason he called René in the first place.
“What did you say his name was, Torres?” René asks.
Sergio nods again, his gaze catching onto something blonde out on the long stretch of grass leading onto a football field.
“Yeah, yeah his name is Fernando Torres,” he mumbles, as Fernando lock eyes with Sergio.
Steven Gerrard is the one who opens the door to the left of Sergio’s room, not surprisingly.
“Oh, you’re Ramos, aren’t you?” He asks, and Sergio has to take a moment to wonder how the words doesn’t stock up in the Englishman’s throat and come out as complete nonsense, every time he wants to say something.
It half is, nonsense, to Sergio, but there’s a distinct question mark and his name in there, so Sergio nods, sticking out his hand, smile catching up to his brain.
Gerrard takes it, shaking firmly, his features contorting into a bright grin.
“Fernando’s not ‘ere, but he’s been hangin’ out more at yer place than mine the last couple of weeks so, don’t expect ‘im here anytime soon.” Gerrard talks on, deciding Sergio is safe territory while he’s, you know, not really.
While he’s got the distinct quality to talk to anything that will listen to him - Iker even if he decides that he won’t, in fact, listen to what Sergio has to say, but that’s another beside the point - Sergio likes to believe you can at least make out what he says.
“So, not here?” He winces inwardly at how broken the words come out, accentuated to a ´ and a T.
Gerrard however, seems to pay it no attention, or he’s quick enough that he simply leaves it be. Sergio thanks someone skywards anyway, for whatever out of the two.
“Nah, he ain’t ‘ere. Could say you’ve been looking for ‘im, however? Sure the lad’ll be ecstatic if I do.” Gerrard continues, still quick at the tongue.
Sergio nods, thankful.
Gerrard laughs, saluting him as Sergio backs out, and shuts the door.
When Fernando doesn’t show up for the rest of the night, and there are no signs of his mere existence, Sergio skips out on going over to Alonso’s with Iker and Jesús, and goes out himself.
It’s well past eleven pm, but when Sergio finds Fernando’s room anyway, he doesn’t hesitate knocking.
The room is quiet, no surprised stumbles, no gruff mumbles through the door; it’s silent, even so as the door opens and Fernando emits from behind it.
He is clad in a grey pair of sweatpants, and a too big, striped Atlético jersey. His hair is tousled, fringe striping wet down his forehead, suggesting he’s recently out of the shower.
“Sergio? Has something, happened? I mean, what’s up?” Fernando asks, looking vaguely surprised.
Considering Fernando’s and Sergio’s relationship is highly built on a lot of talking, despite what anyone might think of Fernando, and this is not afternoon English, Sergio doesn’t answer that.
Fernando is maybe shocked silent, or shocked to not protesting, when Sergio kisses him, crowding him up against the door frame.
But it’s decidedly not stupor, when he parts his lips, and tangles his tongue with Sergio’s, pressing his fingers into Sergio’s hip, other palm molding to Sergio’s chin.
When they pull apart, breathing heavy and mixing between them, Sergio tastes Fernando’s toothpaste on his tongue.
Fernando pulls a deep breath down his lungs, releasing it quietly as he studies Sergio, nails scratching faint tracks down his throat.
“I-“
They can talk another time.
Sergio likes to talk, but when Fernando doesn’t protest to him canting his hips against Fernando’s and burying his fingers in Fernando’s wet hair. Then even Sergio thinks that talking?
It can be overrated, really.
Mid terms pass, December rolls in, and Sergio sometimes borrows Fernando’s sweaters. He’s got a lot of them in his wardrobe, after all.
Sergio passes his English with a 7.5, all too close to a 6.9, but there’s a definite 7.9 in his transcript. Fernando gets a solid 10, which should be impossible to achieve in Sergio’s opinion.
But it’s Fernando, so then it’s, of course, not.
The blonde is waiting by Sergio’s and Iker’s room when Sergio gets back from his last exam, books against his hip, headphones on.
He looks up when Sergio closes in, but there’s something solemn, maybe hints of guilty there, in his face. It immediately sets off warning bells in Sergio’s gut.
“Fer?” He asks, as Fernando drags the headphones down to around his neck, clicking the iPod off.
“Hey, what’s wrong?”
Fernando averts his gaze, before looking up again, meeting Sergio’s eyes.
“I have to leave, Sergio,” he says, softly, low, and Sergio doesn’t get it at first.
His mind wraps around the words, thinks they’re in English, what’re they in Spanish. But it’s not in English, and Sergio does get it.
He just realizes it too late, when Fernando’s hands deep in Sergio’s (Fernando’s) sweater, kissing him, teeth putting an edge to it, much as Sergio’s confusion does at first.
And then he’s gone, shoulders hunched underneath the thick, grey hood he’s wearing.
Sergio tips his head back against the wall, hard. And then he doesn’t know how long he’s standing there, outside his room, until Iker comes back.
Sergio goes home for the winter break, and he’s happy.
Happy to see his mom, to see René, his sister, his father. Everyone, and Fernando’s departure that’s been lying up high in his chest and dug a hole sized ache there, eases, almost to the point where he’s not feeling it anymore.
He hugs his mother long, hard, nose buried in her shoulder. She smiles, patting his cheek, gets him to help out in the kitchen a lot.
René looks at him sometimes, and Sergio looks back.
It’s not really as fine as he’d like to pretend it is, crawling into bed and not falling asleep because somehow the exhaustion of being home and being everywhere mows a fine way for everything else to jump forward.
Sergio supposes he’s never really suffered something like this before. Can’t recall a loss like the loss of Fernando’s presence, permanently or not, how Sergio doesn’t know that.
It feels like he’s been gone for two days or less when he goes back to school, René driving him through Sevilla, back to Madrid, back to the finishing the year.
Sergio’s English is horrible.
He buries his face in his palms briefly but straightens, and rolls his shoulders to free some tension.
Especially his English grammar.
He sighs, deep and tired, and can feel his stomach rumbling. Sergio moans, worst study session ever, he notes, and it’s pretty truthful. And then he gets hungry as well, a cherry on top, though, not as good.
There are footsteps behind the door, dull, heavy on the carpet. And voices are rising, tones of laughter escalating outside.
And it’s one of those days. Wednesday, dubbed middle of the week Friday. Sergio hates Wednesdays, from now on he does.
His laptop freezes regularly, his copy of Word is apparently unlicensed and can’t be updated to ’07, and he thinks he’s got about a dozen Trojans feeding off of his disc.
The door opens, a barely audible click, and he can see Jesús flatten himself against the wall, face scrunched up in concentration as he balances boxes of pizza on his left palm, and tries to keep the door as shut as possible.
Sergio hurries to stand up.
The Sevillan shakes his head curtly, and does manage to shut the door behind himself before Sergio can make it over to him, barely scouting by dropping all the food.
“I’ve got it,” he mutters, but still drops half the boxes on Sergio.
“Iker’s over at Fabregas’, don’t know what he’s doing there, don’t think I want to either.” Jesús says, tone easy going, but smirking.
Sergio laughs, “Don’t remind me,” and goes to drop the boxes down at the table while the Sevillan scouts the kitchen for cutlery of any kind.
All the fridge is - apparently - good for is some numbered days old Pepsi, but neither of them complains.
Sergio gets two highball glasses from a cabinet, and Jesús raises his glass, a gesture that manages to be somehow sardonic, even as he smiles.
“Exams, man,” he says, and Sergio snorts as he gulps down half the glass.
There’s a thump in the wall next door, but he doesn’t think much of it.
The first English exam Sergio does go to hell, five months later. Figuratively, literally, whatever you want to call it, Sergio just feels fucking done with the language altogether.
Grammar is kicking his ass, and he knows it. So is pronunciation, so next available day, he goes out.
It’s not a Friday, not weekend, it’s not even Wednesday. But it’s been way too long since he went out just like this.
He gets in at a local bar downtown, neighboring with the local Thai restaurant that’s popular around campus for casual take out.
Orders a beer, and just sits there. Truthfully, he doesn’t feel like doing much, stretches out over the seat, takes a swig from the bottle.
The bar is sparsely crowded - Sergio is early.
Not that he’s usually here, to know, but only half the tables are full, or even taken. Soft rock is bleeding from the speakers, down in the bar counter, and Sergio unconsciously taps his fingers to it.
A few blonde heads flash past Sergio.
It’s not Fernando, any of them.
He’s sitting slumped forward in the couch in Jesús’ room, elbows resting on his knees, fingers curled into fists as they watch the Sevilla game.
Sergio’s dragged Iker with him as well, though he grumbled and let himself be dragged there more for, what Sergio believes, the promise of a break and some beer, now when Cesc is out of town for a couple of days.
It’s maybe just a coincidence that they’re playing Atlético today, and not somebody else.
It’s a corner - this one for Atlético, and Sergio’s eyes are glued to the screen as Agüero lines up in the corner, and red striped and white mix in the penalty area.
Somewhere to his left Jesús is making crude comments at the screen, and Iker is dozing. It’s a good game, admittedly, Sergio isn’t dumb - he knows both teams are playing it good today.
At some point, during the moment when Agüero’s foot connects with the ball, during the rouse of fans on the bleachers, or during the trampling around, shoving and confusion of at least fifteen feet, Sergio’s cell starts to vibrate in his pocket.
He thinks of ignoring it, as the ball is a slightly too long, none of Sevilla’s defenders getting a proper grip of it as it surges through the air.
But the caller is persistent, and Sergio shoves one hand down his pocket, fumbling for the phone.
He doesn’t look twice at the number before clicking on the call, and slipping the phone between his ear and shoulder.
Fernando’s voice hits him like maybe the waves of the sea’d do, throws Sergio off balance, makes him freeze up in sync with the moment the ball hits the back of the net, slipping over de Gea by mere millimeters.
“We won,” he says, softly. Sergio could distinguish the smile in his voice by a thousand miles, and maybe that’s what it is, separating them.
“Fernando, I-“ there’s something on the tip of Sergio’s tongue, that ultimately slips off it, and he goes silent. A whole shitload of things wresting for first in Sergio’s head, and as they do, nothing comes out.
The result is that he hangs up, still stunned to silence.
Jesús is warily watching him from his left, sea eyes serious, jaw set.
Sergio meets his gaze, shakes his head as good as he gets, before standing up, leaving the room.
It’s well past eight thirty pm when Sergio moves from staring at the peeling, faded old paint in the roof above his bed, and takes a walk around campus.
Feels that it’s in order, clearing his thoughts, sorting out what the hell had happened.
Feeling all sixty and three stitches across his chest being unnecessarily, carelessly ripped out through his lungs and windpipe for what’d turned out to be a give or take thirty seconds.
He shoves his hands into his pockets, shaking a strand of hair out of his face, squinting up at a pastel blue stretching out across a cloud free sky.
Kind of ironic in oppose to Sergio’s whole life, this day.
There’re two majorities in his head - the Ramos you’re a fucking idiot, man, for hanging up on Fernando. And the what were you supposed to have done, if you hadn’t.
Sergio can’t tell which one is winning, if he’s honest with himself.
Maybe he isn’t even surprised it’d turn out like this. It’s not like Sergio is a fucking princess and Fernando that whole, fucking knight in armor that shows up one day.
The premise of their whole relationship -whatever that’d turned out to be in the end- had basically been Sergio chasing his counter opposite.
Fernando did however, just turn up in Sergio’s life one day. In that library, and Sergio’d been surprised then, and he still is, that he even noticed him, blonde strands hanging down in his eyes and books.
And Sergio chasing after him since then, key word chasing. Not like Fernando had run away, but he’d never really been there, either.
“Well, now I am,” and Sergio is rooted to the spot like he’s stood there for the past few centuries.
Fernando has the decency to look guilty, or maybe the indecency to look as guilty as he does, sound as though he’d made Sergio die twice in a row (which, maybe he had).
Sergio wouldn’t exactly know, his head is a war zone, and he suspects his eyes are comically wide.
“And I know it’s not going to, like, magically be okay. But, you know, I’m here,” he says, eyes averted, tone speaking as though he wants Sergio to understand that the I’m here part is supposed to mean something.
And Sergio understands what it’s supposed to mean. Problem is, last time didn’t exactly work out, and he suspects he might have been the only one understanding the weight of that.
“I can see that, Fernando,” is what Sergio chooses to say.
He’s surprised at how his voice doesn’t reflect any of what’s going on in his head when he speaks, keeping low and smooth and to the ground.
But Sergio’s eyes doesn’t move from Fernando. And eventually, the blonde chooses to smile, almost a wry touch to it.
“Well, I suppose that’s a good start.”
When Fernando takes a few steps forward on the side walk, tentatively, eyes never missing a beat, the smile fading but the impact of everything still on heavy on Sergio, he can feel something fracture inside of him.
There’s too much teeth to the kiss, and Fernando’s fingers are bunching up and fisting in Sergio’s hair too roughly.
Fernando seems to shove just about everything into it, feelings and I’m sorry and I’m here and I’m leaving again, at some point, but I don’t want to talk about it.
And because Sergio can sometimes accept that talking doesn’t solve as much as actions, he hopes he won’t have to answer to that last statement.
Endings always come after a middle part, which follows from a beginning, and in Sergio’s opinion - maybe this is a somehow start(over). With a touch of wryness.
rating; pg-13
fandom; football rps (au)
warnings; not much that doesn’t go unspoken, (booze, language, making out, you know)
pairing(s); fernando torres/sergio ramos, implied iker casillas/cesc fabregas, david villa, steven gerrard, jesús navas, rené,
word count; 5.600
disclaimer; nope. don't own a thing here.
notes; come on, you all knew this was coming. How can you be in a fandom and not write this au (high school/college/uni)? Yeah I know, we’ve seen it countless of times, why not one more? (god I have too much to write and I don’t even know about this lmao) special cameos by steven gerrard and jesús navas, because, you know, it was in order. And apparently no, I can’t write higher ratings for this pairing, it’s impossible, or something. Sorry y’all, pg-13 it is for now. unbetad, once again, argh I could think about getting myself someone who’d want to beta football fic nudge now hanna not later nudge title from rob thomas’ mockingbird!
summary; “maybe you and me got lost somewhere, we can't move on we can't stay here
well maybe we've just had enough, maybe we ain’t meant for this love”
The year’s just begun, something you can just feel.
It’s not exactly new in the sense that it feels unfamiliar, you’re nervous, sweaty palms and the wrong turn after three cases of stairs when looking for your room.
It’s exciting, the newness of going away like this, studying away from home, not continuing in Sevilla after college.
Of course, it’s hard too, Sergio misses his family whenever he goes away. He’ll never not miss Sevilla, his mother, his siblings.
And he does make the wrong turn across campus sometimes, looking for his dorms.
“We’re going out tonight, you’re still on?” Iker asks as Sergio finds him after lunch, slinging an arm around his shoulders.
“Of course, you think I’d miss it?” Iker nods, grinning over his shoulder as he pushes Sergio away.
“I’ve got a discourse in History, gotta hurry,” he explains.
Sergio claps his shoulder, “I’ll see you at five!” He says, before doing a half turn and maybe he’ll get it right to Sociology today.
As it turns out, Sergio takes left instead of right for what has to be the eleventh time already this week, and turns up at the library instead.
It’s fine - he’s ten minutes due still, but it’s as frustrating as the previous ten times getting that specific turn wrong.
He’s about to turn back - in fact, there’s nothing that’s really stopping Sergio from going back, doing right.
But every time he’s briefly been in and out of the library, there’s been the same blonde guy studying, there. He switches tables every time, but Sergio is relatively sure he’d recognize him anywhere on campus.
Blonde, pale, skin dotted with so many freckles it’d be impossible to count them all, clean cut cheekbones and pursued lips.
He suddenly looks up and around, scratching the back of his neck, before bowing down over his books again.
Sergio takes one look at the generous time table on the wall, and realizes he’ll be late if he stands there for any longer. Besides, who does that, anyway?
“So, I’ve heard you’re following Fernando around, Sergio?” Villa says, amused, leaning over the table to the left of his computer, ceasing his tapping.
Sergio frowns, taking his eyes off of the few lines he’s managed to dot down on his own English course assignment. “Gago? Man, I haven’t seen him for days.”
Villa laughs, a deep sound as he leans back into his seat, rolling his shoulders free from tension underneath his white Adidas track.
“Not that Fernando. Torres. You know, pale and blonde, freckles?”
Sergio averts his eyes briefly, but cocks an eyebrow and snorts, bit too softly, “So it’s your job to keep tabs on me?”
“Relax, Gitano. No need to get stingy.” Although there’s a certain glint of something in Villa’s eyes as Sergio meets his eyes before Villa goes back to tapping out his essay -whatever that is again-, quietly humming along to some famous pop song.
Sergio mirrors it; tapping up the word processor again, skimming through the few sentences of rough grammar and what’s surely pretty horrible spelling.
He almost writes the entirely wrong thing as the name sticks to his mind like it was fly paper, twice.
“I can’t place him where I always go,” he mutters, but wills himself back to concentrating, nevertheless.
Villa’s small smile is felt all the way up Sergio’s spine and forth to his temples, when he realizes there’s another ten minutes add on to the all nighter he inevitably has to pull here to get done.
He has to skip out on the night out with Iker, which is just typical for Sergio’s luck.
Do this, do that, hand this in at the fifteenth, get in time for this discourse, sign up for this pass/fail before semester is over, don’t forget about that game.
On the whole, Sergio imagined university to be quite stressful, but not quite this stressful.
Fine, so maybe he did, but there is a very big difference between imagining and getting intimate with the real thing.
He sighs, palming his forehead, rubbing the sleep out of his left eye before burying himself in books again.
There is just something about Fridays that ultimately makes Sergio sick of sitting in on one.
There’s been some traffic through his dorms tonight, some steadily leaking through his door.
Iker stopped by to drop his bags and books earlier, an eyebrow immediately raised at Sergio sitting parked by his laptop, soft flamenco on his iPod.
“You know Sergio, somewhere you really have to stop spending all your time at girls’ you’ve got no interest in what so ever, and start getting in time for your classes,” he said, tone unimpressed as he dropped down to Sergio’s right, pulling an ear bud out of his ear in favor of listening.
Sergio looked up at him, smirk building in the corners of his mouth, “but there’d be no fun in that, right?”
Iker sighed, but there’d been a smile on his face as he did, “you’ve never listened before, so I suppose you won’t now, either. Are you still coming out tonight?”
Sergio moaned, because no, he wouldn’t be coming with him, and that’s not something he liked to admit.
And because all the same, Iker had actually had a point.
Not that he didn’t usually - Sergio couldn’t count Iker’s good points on ten fingers, period - but this time, it really is frustrating.
“No, I have to finish this. Will probably stay up all night to do it, too,” he threw himself back against the wall, the collision with the back of his head giving a dull thump.
“Suit yourself, hope you enjoy it,” Iker grinned, fingers briefly combing through Sergio’s hair and scratching down his temple before he stood, crossing the room and grabbing a towel discarded across his bed and before heading into the bathroom.
Who wouldn’t take the shit out of your situation right now, Ramos, Sergio argues with himself, where he is, still sitting by his books, hours later.
There’re hollow echoes of feet in the corridor outside, and having music on only served as a distraction.
But it seems the better option now, when Sergio’s tongue is practically itching with swears to throw at the guys outside his room.
Hypocritical as it seems, a man needs his peace every once in a while.
And so much for that.
The door is carefully locked from the outside when Sergio irritably forcefully, tries the handle, brow furrowed.
To add on to the list of things that does not go Sergio Ramos’ way tonight, of course it does not open, the hinges whining and refusing to go smoothly when he practically has to kick down the door to get it open.
Anything remotely annoyed and in style with shut the fuck up dies on his lips, promptly, when he almost gets hands on - and that pretty damn literally, flitters surprisedly across his mind - with Fernando Torres’ pale, loosely curled fist, drawn back and probably just about to knock.
“You are-not Stevie,” he says, eyebrows curved upwards on his forehead, but he drops his fist in an almost sheepish manner.
“Steve-oh, Gerrard? No, he uhm, he’s got the room to the left.”
The way Stevie sounds on Fernando’s tongue is almost foreign, and Sergio has to rein himself in as to not trip over the pronunciation.
Fernando is nodding, backing up, when something seems to hit him.
“You’re, I mean-I’ve seen you a lot at the library,” he adverts his eyes for a fraction of a moment.
“Ramos, Sergio.” Sergio replies, almost too fast, but Fernando looks up, and there’s a small, slightly awkward tilt to his lips as he replies: “Fernando, Torres.”
Curling up at the back of Sergio’s own, Fernando’s fingers are long and pale, splashed with freckles.
“So, I should probably, you know, get going. Before anyone hurts themselves in there.”
There’s a loud voice announcing something indistinguishable in British from inside the next door, and Fernando winces gingerly when it’s followed by something colliding heavily with the door.
Sergio gives a loud laugh. “Well, if you need any help with them, I’m right here.”
Fernando draws his hand back hesitantly, nails pressing against the skin at the back of Sergio’s hand, but he looks thankful as he nods.
Sergio doesn’t close the door for a good minute, even as Fernando has shut the door softly behind him, neck twisted around to glance at Sergio as he does.
He shakes his head, scratching at the back of his neck.
There’s a sudden drill of noise behind him, something getting caught in the space between ringing and falling silent.
His computer has frozen up.
Sergio throws himself back in, towards the computer, where a blue screen pops against the screwed down fluorescent lightning.
“No, nononono, fuck!” He curses, frantically pressing the power button several times. It doesn’t shut off.
He slumps back into the chair, hooking a strand of hair behind his ear, squinting at the computer as it slowly restarts.
Well, if he ever had reason to scream something like bloody murder, it’d be now. Life hates Sergio, and Sergio hates Microsoft.
Next Friday, Sergio does not sit in.
While the essay remains gone, trapped in what’s surely limbo between Microsoft Word ’03 and ctrl + shift + delete, he’s just not missing out on next Friday.
It’s not the first essay Sergio hasn’t turned in, and he inquires - to himself, mostly - that it won’t be the last either. And it’s not like it’s something that he’d hang his life up on, so it’s fine. Mostly.
Someone on campus throws a party, figures it’s easier than rendering into town, and the first years seem thankful enough, most of them not having to use fake ID’s to get into a place that has booze and loud as fuck music at the end of the week.
Pipita gets him beer, telling campus tales and leaning over their table animatedly as Sergio leans back, laughing loudly, an arm slung around Albiol’s shoulders, feeling ever so slightly tipsy, too warm and itchy in his clothes.
In the corner of his eye he sees flashes of blonde, but it’s never Fernando Torres’ back of head he’s looking at when he turns.
It isn’t for most of the night, as more people cram into the couch and chairs around the low coffee table Sergio is parked at.
He gets up at one point, bottle half empty - or half full, depending on how you look at the evening - with beer and wanders around.
He stumbles upon Sara on his way around and through the coils of students, rests his hand at her shoulder and gives her a brush of lips to the cheek before pointing out their table.
She tilts her head, scrutinizing his face for something, before nodding, letting it go.
“How are you, Sergio?” She asks, face open, pleasant.
“I’m great,” Sergio replies, grinning broadly. Because he is, tired, but it’s not like that isn’t natural to be. Tipsy, another score in the great department.
She squeezes his wrist, smiling and nodding, as she starts to tread through people.
Sergio shrugs to himself, takes another swig of his beer, the urge to shadow his eyes ridiculous, because the light is really low.
The alcohol having accentuated what lights are on, though.
The music starts pulsing heavily, someone cracking up the volume until thoughts are simply blown out the window, fitting in somewhere that’s not here and now.
Sergio likes the mindset of that person, smiling to himself.
That’s when a blonde head is Fernando.
He shows up in Sergio’s periphery vision, looking vaguely disinterested where he’s resting a foot against the wall, arms crossed over a red t-shirt as he talks out of the corner of his mouth to Maxi Rodriguez.
Sergio moves to the left, not noticeably, but hey, enhance what’s already there, he might get lucky.
It’s not like he wouldn’t want there to be anything there, but so far he’s only talked to Fernando once, and hey, it’s not like Sergio only picks people up.
Fernando’s gaze hitch at him, and a smile starts to pluck at the corners of his mouth as he nods his head once in Sergio’s direction. He says something, swift words as he straightens up, to Rodriguez, who also seems to catch sightings of Sergio.
He grins, clapping Fernando’s shoulder, before sauntering away, into the crowd and dim lights.
The heavy, almost sluggish beat strumming through the floorboards continue as they go outside in something like an unspoken agreement.
The song is one Sergio off handedly thinks he knows, but ultimately can’t place.
They’re just outside the host room, Fernando having escaped outside, Sergio just behind him, kicking the door shut in bypassing.
“I doubt the next floor gets much sleep now.” Fernando muses out loud; fingers hooked in his jeans pockets.
Sergio snorts, can feel a loose smile tug at his lips, “they’re all down here man, no one sleeps tonight.”
“I guess so,” Fernando replies, before starting to hum the song lightly under his breath.
Sergio takes another glance at him (notices the way the low light slants in Fernando’s bleached hair, the way the song seems to move to his lips and not the other way around. Mama always did say he had a way with words) because he doesn’t risk it.
Not when Fernando glances back, just as fast, just as briefly, just as packed.
“You know this song?” Sergio asks. Genuinely curious, since it’s fully in English.
Then again he’s not really surprised, seeing as all he’s ever seen the older boy do is hang with Gerrard and the other exchanges, and study for his English course.
Fernando half shrugs a shoulder, something Sergio’s quickly coming to associate with him.
“I’ve heard it a couple of times,” he probably takes notice of Sergio’s raised eyebrow, gives a short laugh “Stevie’s iPod, and occasionally while we’ve been out in Liverpool.”
Sergio’s interest peaks (he doesn’t yet go to where he’s interested in knowing Fernando’s and Steven’s exact relationship, he doesn’t) but at the mention of Fernando having been to Liverpool.
“So, you have been to England?”
Fernando nods, half smile that still manages to look genuine and do things to Sergio on his face.
“I went there to study for two years, before I came here. This is only my first year at this campus.”
“Not alone in it being your first year here then.” Sergio offers to him.
Fernando doesn’t reply directly, but there’s something there as he gives Sergio a full bodied smile, before they’re interrupted by Iker and Cesc.
Sergio lets himself be dragged inside again, only half heartedly, as Fernando waves slightly over his shoulder before crossing the corridor into his own room.
They meet up regularly after that.
Fernando’s English is sharp - well, accentually, not so much, but in terms of knowledge, Sergio admits to being pretty floored - and Sergio’s is horrible.
It’s a natural progression that Sergio asks for his help (“You look like you’re dying, what’s up?” Sergio moans louder, pointing to the stack of papers in front of him, “Man, have you seen this? Fer, no one should have to learn this, I tell you.” Fernando laughs quietly, Sergio glances at him, gaze catching on thin lips and freckles stretching over rows of bleach white teeth. “It’s really not that bad, I promise. And if you ever, you know, need any help, I’m right here,” his smile broadens, and Sergio admits to a laugh) and Fernando helps.
He’s a quiet guy, wears sweaters when Sergio asks how can you do that in this weather, and shrugs, something in his eyes when he admits that he’s really not used to the climate shift yet, even if it’s been months since he came back to Spain.
“Liverpool is mostly cold; it’s not that easy to shift regularly,” he says, a half tilt to his lips that makes Sergio frown.
He calls Fernando up on the regularly thing, and he explains that he’s not really staying in Spain. Liverpool is where he lives.
They’ve known each other for a month and a half, and it still makes something unpleasant hitch up in Sergio’s stomach. He feels sentimental in a way that’s almost alien in these situations.
When he leaves after Linguistics on Wednesday, he ventures out on the school area, vaguely chilly November wind whipping around the trees, grey sky witnessing of rain.
He calls René then, his brother always having been good with advice whereas Sergio’s been less than great at it, and it’s the first person he can think of to talk to.
“How are you, all of you?” Sergio asks into the speaker, free hand driven deep into his pocket, fingers tugging at a loose thread absently.
René shifts the phone, saying “It’s great,” while Sergio says “Good, great.”
“But you aren’t.” Sergio’s brother concludes, tone to the point. Because that’s how they are, in his family, and Sergio shakes his head, even though that’s not really a great reply to someone in a phone conversation.
“I guess not,” he admits.
Because Fernando’s a third year, he’s got less than a year left. And there’s something that’s just clicked between them, and he wouldn’t want to let that go to waste.
He likes Fernando, likes a lot about him.
Not just his English, or the way he laughs, or his high cut cheek bones and freckles, or his subtle dryness that’s there sometimes.
Not even just for the way Fernando is familiar and at the same time not, or for the way they can talk football even though Fernando is an Atlético fan, and Sergio will always stay true to Sevilla.
Hell, for all Sergio knows Fernando is great because he wears sweaters when it’s hot enough outside for shorts and a t-shirt, even though the truth behind it is the reason he called René in the first place.
“What did you say his name was, Torres?” René asks.
Sergio nods again, his gaze catching onto something blonde out on the long stretch of grass leading onto a football field.
“Yeah, yeah his name is Fernando Torres,” he mumbles, as Fernando lock eyes with Sergio.
Steven Gerrard is the one who opens the door to the left of Sergio’s room, not surprisingly.
“Oh, you’re Ramos, aren’t you?” He asks, and Sergio has to take a moment to wonder how the words doesn’t stock up in the Englishman’s throat and come out as complete nonsense, every time he wants to say something.
It half is, nonsense, to Sergio, but there’s a distinct question mark and his name in there, so Sergio nods, sticking out his hand, smile catching up to his brain.
Gerrard takes it, shaking firmly, his features contorting into a bright grin.
“Fernando’s not ‘ere, but he’s been hangin’ out more at yer place than mine the last couple of weeks so, don’t expect ‘im here anytime soon.” Gerrard talks on, deciding Sergio is safe territory while he’s, you know, not really.
While he’s got the distinct quality to talk to anything that will listen to him - Iker even if he decides that he won’t, in fact, listen to what Sergio has to say, but that’s another beside the point - Sergio likes to believe you can at least make out what he says.
“So, not here?” He winces inwardly at how broken the words come out, accentuated to a ´ and a T.
Gerrard however, seems to pay it no attention, or he’s quick enough that he simply leaves it be. Sergio thanks someone skywards anyway, for whatever out of the two.
“Nah, he ain’t ‘ere. Could say you’ve been looking for ‘im, however? Sure the lad’ll be ecstatic if I do.” Gerrard continues, still quick at the tongue.
Sergio nods, thankful.
Gerrard laughs, saluting him as Sergio backs out, and shuts the door.
When Fernando doesn’t show up for the rest of the night, and there are no signs of his mere existence, Sergio skips out on going over to Alonso’s with Iker and Jesús, and goes out himself.
It’s well past eleven pm, but when Sergio finds Fernando’s room anyway, he doesn’t hesitate knocking.
The room is quiet, no surprised stumbles, no gruff mumbles through the door; it’s silent, even so as the door opens and Fernando emits from behind it.
He is clad in a grey pair of sweatpants, and a too big, striped Atlético jersey. His hair is tousled, fringe striping wet down his forehead, suggesting he’s recently out of the shower.
“Sergio? Has something, happened? I mean, what’s up?” Fernando asks, looking vaguely surprised.
Considering Fernando’s and Sergio’s relationship is highly built on a lot of talking, despite what anyone might think of Fernando, and this is not afternoon English, Sergio doesn’t answer that.
Fernando is maybe shocked silent, or shocked to not protesting, when Sergio kisses him, crowding him up against the door frame.
But it’s decidedly not stupor, when he parts his lips, and tangles his tongue with Sergio’s, pressing his fingers into Sergio’s hip, other palm molding to Sergio’s chin.
When they pull apart, breathing heavy and mixing between them, Sergio tastes Fernando’s toothpaste on his tongue.
Fernando pulls a deep breath down his lungs, releasing it quietly as he studies Sergio, nails scratching faint tracks down his throat.
“I-“
They can talk another time.
Sergio likes to talk, but when Fernando doesn’t protest to him canting his hips against Fernando’s and burying his fingers in Fernando’s wet hair. Then even Sergio thinks that talking?
It can be overrated, really.
Mid terms pass, December rolls in, and Sergio sometimes borrows Fernando’s sweaters. He’s got a lot of them in his wardrobe, after all.
Sergio passes his English with a 7.5, all too close to a 6.9, but there’s a definite 7.9 in his transcript. Fernando gets a solid 10, which should be impossible to achieve in Sergio’s opinion.
But it’s Fernando, so then it’s, of course, not.
The blonde is waiting by Sergio’s and Iker’s room when Sergio gets back from his last exam, books against his hip, headphones on.
He looks up when Sergio closes in, but there’s something solemn, maybe hints of guilty there, in his face. It immediately sets off warning bells in Sergio’s gut.
“Fer?” He asks, as Fernando drags the headphones down to around his neck, clicking the iPod off.
“Hey, what’s wrong?”
Fernando averts his gaze, before looking up again, meeting Sergio’s eyes.
“I have to leave, Sergio,” he says, softly, low, and Sergio doesn’t get it at first.
His mind wraps around the words, thinks they’re in English, what’re they in Spanish. But it’s not in English, and Sergio does get it.
He just realizes it too late, when Fernando’s hands deep in Sergio’s (Fernando’s) sweater, kissing him, teeth putting an edge to it, much as Sergio’s confusion does at first.
And then he’s gone, shoulders hunched underneath the thick, grey hood he’s wearing.
Sergio tips his head back against the wall, hard. And then he doesn’t know how long he’s standing there, outside his room, until Iker comes back.
Sergio goes home for the winter break, and he’s happy.
Happy to see his mom, to see René, his sister, his father. Everyone, and Fernando’s departure that’s been lying up high in his chest and dug a hole sized ache there, eases, almost to the point where he’s not feeling it anymore.
He hugs his mother long, hard, nose buried in her shoulder. She smiles, patting his cheek, gets him to help out in the kitchen a lot.
René looks at him sometimes, and Sergio looks back.
It’s not really as fine as he’d like to pretend it is, crawling into bed and not falling asleep because somehow the exhaustion of being home and being everywhere mows a fine way for everything else to jump forward.
Sergio supposes he’s never really suffered something like this before. Can’t recall a loss like the loss of Fernando’s presence, permanently or not, how Sergio doesn’t know that.
It feels like he’s been gone for two days or less when he goes back to school, René driving him through Sevilla, back to Madrid, back to the finishing the year.
Sergio’s English is horrible.
He buries his face in his palms briefly but straightens, and rolls his shoulders to free some tension.
Especially his English grammar.
He sighs, deep and tired, and can feel his stomach rumbling. Sergio moans, worst study session ever, he notes, and it’s pretty truthful. And then he gets hungry as well, a cherry on top, though, not as good.
There are footsteps behind the door, dull, heavy on the carpet. And voices are rising, tones of laughter escalating outside.
And it’s one of those days. Wednesday, dubbed middle of the week Friday. Sergio hates Wednesdays, from now on he does.
His laptop freezes regularly, his copy of Word is apparently unlicensed and can’t be updated to ’07, and he thinks he’s got about a dozen Trojans feeding off of his disc.
The door opens, a barely audible click, and he can see Jesús flatten himself against the wall, face scrunched up in concentration as he balances boxes of pizza on his left palm, and tries to keep the door as shut as possible.
Sergio hurries to stand up.
The Sevillan shakes his head curtly, and does manage to shut the door behind himself before Sergio can make it over to him, barely scouting by dropping all the food.
“I’ve got it,” he mutters, but still drops half the boxes on Sergio.
“Iker’s over at Fabregas’, don’t know what he’s doing there, don’t think I want to either.” Jesús says, tone easy going, but smirking.
Sergio laughs, “Don’t remind me,” and goes to drop the boxes down at the table while the Sevillan scouts the kitchen for cutlery of any kind.
All the fridge is - apparently - good for is some numbered days old Pepsi, but neither of them complains.
Sergio gets two highball glasses from a cabinet, and Jesús raises his glass, a gesture that manages to be somehow sardonic, even as he smiles.
“Exams, man,” he says, and Sergio snorts as he gulps down half the glass.
There’s a thump in the wall next door, but he doesn’t think much of it.
The first English exam Sergio does go to hell, five months later. Figuratively, literally, whatever you want to call it, Sergio just feels fucking done with the language altogether.
Grammar is kicking his ass, and he knows it. So is pronunciation, so next available day, he goes out.
It’s not a Friday, not weekend, it’s not even Wednesday. But it’s been way too long since he went out just like this.
He gets in at a local bar downtown, neighboring with the local Thai restaurant that’s popular around campus for casual take out.
Orders a beer, and just sits there. Truthfully, he doesn’t feel like doing much, stretches out over the seat, takes a swig from the bottle.
The bar is sparsely crowded - Sergio is early.
Not that he’s usually here, to know, but only half the tables are full, or even taken. Soft rock is bleeding from the speakers, down in the bar counter, and Sergio unconsciously taps his fingers to it.
A few blonde heads flash past Sergio.
It’s not Fernando, any of them.
He’s sitting slumped forward in the couch in Jesús’ room, elbows resting on his knees, fingers curled into fists as they watch the Sevilla game.
Sergio’s dragged Iker with him as well, though he grumbled and let himself be dragged there more for, what Sergio believes, the promise of a break and some beer, now when Cesc is out of town for a couple of days.
It’s maybe just a coincidence that they’re playing Atlético today, and not somebody else.
It’s a corner - this one for Atlético, and Sergio’s eyes are glued to the screen as Agüero lines up in the corner, and red striped and white mix in the penalty area.
Somewhere to his left Jesús is making crude comments at the screen, and Iker is dozing. It’s a good game, admittedly, Sergio isn’t dumb - he knows both teams are playing it good today.
At some point, during the moment when Agüero’s foot connects with the ball, during the rouse of fans on the bleachers, or during the trampling around, shoving and confusion of at least fifteen feet, Sergio’s cell starts to vibrate in his pocket.
He thinks of ignoring it, as the ball is a slightly too long, none of Sevilla’s defenders getting a proper grip of it as it surges through the air.
But the caller is persistent, and Sergio shoves one hand down his pocket, fumbling for the phone.
He doesn’t look twice at the number before clicking on the call, and slipping the phone between his ear and shoulder.
Fernando’s voice hits him like maybe the waves of the sea’d do, throws Sergio off balance, makes him freeze up in sync with the moment the ball hits the back of the net, slipping over de Gea by mere millimeters.
“We won,” he says, softly. Sergio could distinguish the smile in his voice by a thousand miles, and maybe that’s what it is, separating them.
“Fernando, I-“ there’s something on the tip of Sergio’s tongue, that ultimately slips off it, and he goes silent. A whole shitload of things wresting for first in Sergio’s head, and as they do, nothing comes out.
The result is that he hangs up, still stunned to silence.
Jesús is warily watching him from his left, sea eyes serious, jaw set.
Sergio meets his gaze, shakes his head as good as he gets, before standing up, leaving the room.
It’s well past eight thirty pm when Sergio moves from staring at the peeling, faded old paint in the roof above his bed, and takes a walk around campus.
Feels that it’s in order, clearing his thoughts, sorting out what the hell had happened.
Feeling all sixty and three stitches across his chest being unnecessarily, carelessly ripped out through his lungs and windpipe for what’d turned out to be a give or take thirty seconds.
He shoves his hands into his pockets, shaking a strand of hair out of his face, squinting up at a pastel blue stretching out across a cloud free sky.
Kind of ironic in oppose to Sergio’s whole life, this day.
There’re two majorities in his head - the Ramos you’re a fucking idiot, man, for hanging up on Fernando. And the what were you supposed to have done, if you hadn’t.
Sergio can’t tell which one is winning, if he’s honest with himself.
Maybe he isn’t even surprised it’d turn out like this. It’s not like Sergio is a fucking princess and Fernando that whole, fucking knight in armor that shows up one day.
The premise of their whole relationship -whatever that’d turned out to be in the end- had basically been Sergio chasing his counter opposite.
Fernando did however, just turn up in Sergio’s life one day. In that library, and Sergio’d been surprised then, and he still is, that he even noticed him, blonde strands hanging down in his eyes and books.
And Sergio chasing after him since then, key word chasing. Not like Fernando had run away, but he’d never really been there, either.
“Well, now I am,” and Sergio is rooted to the spot like he’s stood there for the past few centuries.
Fernando has the decency to look guilty, or maybe the indecency to look as guilty as he does, sound as though he’d made Sergio die twice in a row (which, maybe he had).
Sergio wouldn’t exactly know, his head is a war zone, and he suspects his eyes are comically wide.
“And I know it’s not going to, like, magically be okay. But, you know, I’m here,” he says, eyes averted, tone speaking as though he wants Sergio to understand that the I’m here part is supposed to mean something.
And Sergio understands what it’s supposed to mean. Problem is, last time didn’t exactly work out, and he suspects he might have been the only one understanding the weight of that.
“I can see that, Fernando,” is what Sergio chooses to say.
He’s surprised at how his voice doesn’t reflect any of what’s going on in his head when he speaks, keeping low and smooth and to the ground.
But Sergio’s eyes doesn’t move from Fernando. And eventually, the blonde chooses to smile, almost a wry touch to it.
“Well, I suppose that’s a good start.”
When Fernando takes a few steps forward on the side walk, tentatively, eyes never missing a beat, the smile fading but the impact of everything still on heavy on Sergio, he can feel something fracture inside of him.
There’s too much teeth to the kiss, and Fernando’s fingers are bunching up and fisting in Sergio’s hair too roughly.
Fernando seems to shove just about everything into it, feelings and I’m sorry and I’m here and I’m leaving again, at some point, but I don’t want to talk about it.
And because Sergio can sometimes accept that talking doesn’t solve as much as actions, he hopes he won’t have to answer to that last statement.
Endings always come after a middle part, which follows from a beginning, and in Sergio’s opinion - maybe this is a somehow start(over). With a touch of wryness.