rps: i can see the sun setting: fernando torres/sergio ramos: (1/1)
title; i can see the sun setting, it's casting shadows on the sea
author; fiveto_midnight
rating; pg-13
fandom; football rps
warnings; not much
pairing(s); fernando torres/sergio ramos, raúl gonzález,
word count; 1.725
disclaimer; nope. don't own a thing here.
notes; I’m sincerely sorry for massively posting like, always. :/ but you know, you’re thankful when you’re able to write something on a whim, so I’m being thankful, and writing it out, lol. Just a small thing, like, uh, you know, most of my sernando fics are. Unbetad, as usually (unfortunately, haha). Title from city and colour’s what makes a man, which was also the sole inspiration for writing this. also shit i'm kind of reverting back to my old writing style. more and's and not enough dots, haha.
summary; i can see the sun, it's setting it's getting colder, starting to freeze, what makes a man want to break a heart with ease?
Fernando doesn’t call before he comes to Spain.
He’s just standing there, outside the door to Sergio’s apartment, when Sergio gets back from the evening out with Raúl and some of his other teammates.
He’s still smiling, can feel the alcohol down in his spine and teeth, and it enhances the sun that makes his eyelids warm without sunglasses.
It spills down in Fernando’s hair and past his shoulders, and he’s wearing an old t-shirt and ratty, torn jeans.
Sergio’s breath catches in his lungs and he has to force it out, when Fernando looks up underneath his fringe and smiles and it’s lopsided and awkward and a slight bit tense. Sergio forces a smile on his own lips, and buries his nose in Fernando’s t-shirt when the striker tentatively steps forth to offer his arms.
“Shit, you know how to use a phone?” Sergio mumbles into the side of Fernando’s neck, where his skin radiates a warmth Liverpool will never have, no matter how much of the sun they see.
“In that case, I’m sorry for surprising you,” Fernando replies, his fingers tangling in Sergio’s belt loops and palms settling familiarly on his hips.
“You better be,” Sergio says, but he doesn’t mean it because he never means anything like that, not to Fernando.
And right now, right in this moment, he doesn’t regret it.
They don’t settle into Sergio’s apartment, because Fernando’s eyes catch longingly on the streets of Madrid and Sergio laughs like he hasn’t done it in a long time, and pulls him outside again.
They drive a bit outside the city, and Sergio pushes a pair of sunglasses into Fernando’s palm (where he wills his fingertips not to linger) and gives him a meaning glance.
“Paparazzi’s aren’t the same here and, you know,”
And Fernando does know.
The silence hangs heavy as Sergio crowds up on the high tail out of the city heart, and Fernando plucks with the hem of his shirt.
Somewhere around where suburbs run down into small houses and sun bleached asphalt in the center of fields where the sun is endless and the grass is still seasoned summer, Fernando’s smile deepens and his eyes look longing once again.
Sergio can imagine that he often looks the same, when he looks at Fernando.
They drive until the outline of the sea is clear and the water glitters beneath the sun that doesn’t set. Air rushes through the crack of open window Fernando has insisted on, and at the entrance to a long strip of beach, he turns to Sergio.
“The beach?”
Sergio kills the engine and looks over at the striker and sees that the question is really just an excuse to talk, because he’s really giddy over the prospect.
Sergio supposes he reads Fernando all too easily, and it hurts, that he can, and yet he can’t, because mostly there are thousands of miles and oceans separating them.
“I thought you might want to go.”
“I do, I just, you know, I was surprised, it’s all,” Fernando’s eyes are hazel and Sergio feels shivers ripple down his spine and he thinks so far so good.
Mostly because Sergio is a hopeless romantic, and this is the only time they’ve ever been to the sea together.
Fernando kicks off his sneakers and rolls his jeans up by the shoreline, and strays out in the shallow water.
His calves are pale and he gets goose flesh, and Sergio notices because he’s staring, right behind his best friend (because this is all Sergio can say they are, but somewhere deeply buried he knows that’s never what he’s thought of them. It somehow doesn’t translate properly just what Fernando Torres ever meant to Sergio) but remaining quiet.
He doesn’t say anything because it’d sound stupid and I miss you is such a telephone word and Sergio uses it too much when Fernando isn’t there, just in his reach.
But somehow, there’s a settled distance between them, and Sergio’s too stupidly proud to try and cross that. At least on his own.
“I want to learn to play the guitar,” Fernando says, digging his toes into the soft sand.
Sergio cocks an eyebrow at him, “oh?”
Fernando looks up, at him, inside of him, “yeah, seriously, I want to learn. I’ve never, you know, tried seriously or anything. And there aren’t a lot of opportunities at home,”
At home stings, it does, and Sergio adverts his eyes.
“Spain is your home,” he whispers, and Fernando stills beside him.
He sighs, and it may be soft and there are a lot of unspoken things in the rush of air, but he doesn’t say anything.
Somehow, that manages to get even deeper under Sergio’s skin.
Fernando doesn’t take Sergio up on the challenge to just let everything out, and Sergio knows he does it because Fernando knows him.
“I’ll teach you,” he says softly, after a while, and Fernando scoots ever so slightly closer.
“Thank you,” he replies, sincere.
Sergio kisses him there, and it’s soft and the water is lapping just by their feet, and Fernando’s tongue strokes Sergio’s and this is how it’s supposed to be. After a while, Fernando climbs on top of him, eyes dark as he pushes Sergio into the sand.
Fernando bites lightly at his lower lip, and Sergio’s heart raps sharply into his ribcage until he thinks he can feel an echo of Torres, Torres, in there.
Sergio does take Fernando up on learning him how to play the guitar.
He teaches him chords and guides his fingers and lean their cheeks together as they settle outside, and Fernando nods and nods and genuinely tries to go with it.
“Like this?” he asks, and pulls an A minor like he already knew it.
Sergio can feel a genuine smirk tug at his lips. “You practiced.”
There’s a slight twang when the D goes wrong, but when Sergio reaches to correct it, Fernando tangles their fingers together into a knot with a significant look in his eyes.
By the end of the night, at one thirty in the morning, he’s mastered D’s and C’s and A’s quite fluently. As he strums out a few chords in minor there's an aching to them which forces Sergio to take a deep breath.
Fernando notices, “Do you want a beer?” he asks.
Sergio shakes his head. “No, no I’m okay.”
He’s not, in fact, okay. And all he wants to say is that you idiot, I fucking want you.
Fernando is taking a flight back to England that leaves from Madrid at eleven in the evening.
It rains, and Sergio decides they stay in. They eat take out Chinese, drink a couple of too many beers and play Pro Evo. Sergio wins, and Fernando laughs so that it echoes in Sergio’s apartment and in Sergio’s mind and he knows it won’t leave him anytime soon.
There’s a special kind of light in the striker’s face, and Sergio - despite himself - leans out and runs the ridge of his thumb along the Liverpool striker’s cheekbone, down and swiping over freckles Sergio knows will always be there.
Fernando leans into the touch, broad palm settling over Sergio’s knee.
Sergio feels mesmerized, all too warm and jittery inside his own body, as he thumbs Fernando’s lower lip, and feels the wet heat of Fernando’s tongue on his skin.
It’s Fernando (again) who presses Sergio into the mat and kisses along the joint of his collar bones and up the side of his neck, and it’s Sergio who whisper things that are impossible and lets himself loose to feel (only this time with less sand in his hair)
“I’m sorry,” Fernando draws with his finger pads against Sergio’s shoulder.
Sergio kisses him with teeth to tell him that he’s not going to accept it.
(He does)
He catches a Liverpool game late one night, almost five weeks later.
He doesn’t really mean to, but Raúl is the only one more or less camping out in his apartment, trying his best as maybe a friend, or maybe just as Sergio’s captain, to fix his (once again) broken heart.
Sergio just wants to forget he still has a heart altogether.
Raúl frowns when he switches over the channel, and sights Anfield, where clear sunlight slants over the stadium and the kop cheers endlessly.
He shouts when Fernando scores, heart beating wildly as he volleys it in the net past the keeper, his hear beating symphonies of maybe loss, maybe pride, and mostly the things he can’t squeeze out when Fernando is there, with him.
He hears how the crowd rolls into the Torres Torres chant, and he slumps back into the sofa again, heart still beating like it’s going to beat out of his body altogether.
Or as if to say tough luck, but here I am, and generally just mock Sergio’s existence.
When the second line of his armband proved he was a red, torres torres, drifts from the speaker like it’s a wave out on the ocean, Raúl shuts the TV off.
“You can’t keep on doing this,” he declares, but the tone is soft and it isn’t as Sergio’s captain he says that he needs to pull himself the fuck together.
Sergio sighs, looking out the window. “You know, it’s the only way I can keep seeing him, all year. He’s not here.”
Raúl doesn’t reply to that, and Sergio doesn’t think he wants him to, because it'd just be i know because Raúl does, indeed, know.
When Sergio gets called up for a national friendly, a month later, he accepts, and hopes that he won’t have to see Fernando, at the same time as he wants to.
Fernando doesn’t call this time either, he simply shows up at Sergio’s doorstep, and Sergio hugs him long and hard and lets him in.
It’s a little colder, and Fernando is wearing a sweater.
A little later, summer sloping into autumn, but Sergio’ll continue to want Fernando there, to miss him, to damn well love him, to respond like he’s used to when Fernando calls him Sese, softly, and when he wants him to show him more chords.
Being heartbroken isn’t something excessive, it isn’t unreal and it hurts, it aches and the ache doesn’t ever quite leave you.
But when Fernando comes to visit, puts his hands in the curves of Sergio’s hips and presses his lips to the patch of skin just under Sergio’s ear and they simultaneously just express, that I miss you, it’s bearable.
author; fiveto_midnight
rating; pg-13
fandom; football rps
warnings; not much
pairing(s); fernando torres/sergio ramos, raúl gonzález,
word count; 1.725
disclaimer; nope. don't own a thing here.
notes; I’m sincerely sorry for massively posting like, always. :/ but you know, you’re thankful when you’re able to write something on a whim, so I’m being thankful, and writing it out, lol. Just a small thing, like, uh, you know, most of my sernando fics are. Unbetad, as usually (unfortunately, haha). Title from city and colour’s what makes a man, which was also the sole inspiration for writing this. also shit i'm kind of reverting back to my old writing style. more and's and not enough dots, haha.
summary; i can see the sun, it's setting it's getting colder, starting to freeze, what makes a man want to break a heart with ease?
Fernando doesn’t call before he comes to Spain.
He’s just standing there, outside the door to Sergio’s apartment, when Sergio gets back from the evening out with Raúl and some of his other teammates.
He’s still smiling, can feel the alcohol down in his spine and teeth, and it enhances the sun that makes his eyelids warm without sunglasses.
It spills down in Fernando’s hair and past his shoulders, and he’s wearing an old t-shirt and ratty, torn jeans.
Sergio’s breath catches in his lungs and he has to force it out, when Fernando looks up underneath his fringe and smiles and it’s lopsided and awkward and a slight bit tense. Sergio forces a smile on his own lips, and buries his nose in Fernando’s t-shirt when the striker tentatively steps forth to offer his arms.
“Shit, you know how to use a phone?” Sergio mumbles into the side of Fernando’s neck, where his skin radiates a warmth Liverpool will never have, no matter how much of the sun they see.
“In that case, I’m sorry for surprising you,” Fernando replies, his fingers tangling in Sergio’s belt loops and palms settling familiarly on his hips.
“You better be,” Sergio says, but he doesn’t mean it because he never means anything like that, not to Fernando.
And right now, right in this moment, he doesn’t regret it.
They don’t settle into Sergio’s apartment, because Fernando’s eyes catch longingly on the streets of Madrid and Sergio laughs like he hasn’t done it in a long time, and pulls him outside again.
They drive a bit outside the city, and Sergio pushes a pair of sunglasses into Fernando’s palm (where he wills his fingertips not to linger) and gives him a meaning glance.
“Paparazzi’s aren’t the same here and, you know,”
And Fernando does know.
The silence hangs heavy as Sergio crowds up on the high tail out of the city heart, and Fernando plucks with the hem of his shirt.
Somewhere around where suburbs run down into small houses and sun bleached asphalt in the center of fields where the sun is endless and the grass is still seasoned summer, Fernando’s smile deepens and his eyes look longing once again.
Sergio can imagine that he often looks the same, when he looks at Fernando.
They drive until the outline of the sea is clear and the water glitters beneath the sun that doesn’t set. Air rushes through the crack of open window Fernando has insisted on, and at the entrance to a long strip of beach, he turns to Sergio.
“The beach?”
Sergio kills the engine and looks over at the striker and sees that the question is really just an excuse to talk, because he’s really giddy over the prospect.
Sergio supposes he reads Fernando all too easily, and it hurts, that he can, and yet he can’t, because mostly there are thousands of miles and oceans separating them.
“I thought you might want to go.”
“I do, I just, you know, I was surprised, it’s all,” Fernando’s eyes are hazel and Sergio feels shivers ripple down his spine and he thinks so far so good.
Mostly because Sergio is a hopeless romantic, and this is the only time they’ve ever been to the sea together.
Fernando kicks off his sneakers and rolls his jeans up by the shoreline, and strays out in the shallow water.
His calves are pale and he gets goose flesh, and Sergio notices because he’s staring, right behind his best friend (because this is all Sergio can say they are, but somewhere deeply buried he knows that’s never what he’s thought of them. It somehow doesn’t translate properly just what Fernando Torres ever meant to Sergio) but remaining quiet.
He doesn’t say anything because it’d sound stupid and I miss you is such a telephone word and Sergio uses it too much when Fernando isn’t there, just in his reach.
But somehow, there’s a settled distance between them, and Sergio’s too stupidly proud to try and cross that. At least on his own.
“I want to learn to play the guitar,” Fernando says, digging his toes into the soft sand.
Sergio cocks an eyebrow at him, “oh?”
Fernando looks up, at him, inside of him, “yeah, seriously, I want to learn. I’ve never, you know, tried seriously or anything. And there aren’t a lot of opportunities at home,”
At home stings, it does, and Sergio adverts his eyes.
“Spain is your home,” he whispers, and Fernando stills beside him.
He sighs, and it may be soft and there are a lot of unspoken things in the rush of air, but he doesn’t say anything.
Somehow, that manages to get even deeper under Sergio’s skin.
Fernando doesn’t take Sergio up on the challenge to just let everything out, and Sergio knows he does it because Fernando knows him.
“I’ll teach you,” he says softly, after a while, and Fernando scoots ever so slightly closer.
“Thank you,” he replies, sincere.
Sergio kisses him there, and it’s soft and the water is lapping just by their feet, and Fernando’s tongue strokes Sergio’s and this is how it’s supposed to be. After a while, Fernando climbs on top of him, eyes dark as he pushes Sergio into the sand.
Fernando bites lightly at his lower lip, and Sergio’s heart raps sharply into his ribcage until he thinks he can feel an echo of Torres, Torres, in there.
Sergio does take Fernando up on learning him how to play the guitar.
He teaches him chords and guides his fingers and lean their cheeks together as they settle outside, and Fernando nods and nods and genuinely tries to go with it.
“Like this?” he asks, and pulls an A minor like he already knew it.
Sergio can feel a genuine smirk tug at his lips. “You practiced.”
There’s a slight twang when the D goes wrong, but when Sergio reaches to correct it, Fernando tangles their fingers together into a knot with a significant look in his eyes.
By the end of the night, at one thirty in the morning, he’s mastered D’s and C’s and A’s quite fluently. As he strums out a few chords in minor there's an aching to them which forces Sergio to take a deep breath.
Fernando notices, “Do you want a beer?” he asks.
Sergio shakes his head. “No, no I’m okay.”
He’s not, in fact, okay. And all he wants to say is that you idiot, I fucking want you.
Fernando is taking a flight back to England that leaves from Madrid at eleven in the evening.
It rains, and Sergio decides they stay in. They eat take out Chinese, drink a couple of too many beers and play Pro Evo. Sergio wins, and Fernando laughs so that it echoes in Sergio’s apartment and in Sergio’s mind and he knows it won’t leave him anytime soon.
There’s a special kind of light in the striker’s face, and Sergio - despite himself - leans out and runs the ridge of his thumb along the Liverpool striker’s cheekbone, down and swiping over freckles Sergio knows will always be there.
Fernando leans into the touch, broad palm settling over Sergio’s knee.
Sergio feels mesmerized, all too warm and jittery inside his own body, as he thumbs Fernando’s lower lip, and feels the wet heat of Fernando’s tongue on his skin.
It’s Fernando (again) who presses Sergio into the mat and kisses along the joint of his collar bones and up the side of his neck, and it’s Sergio who whisper things that are impossible and lets himself loose to feel (only this time with less sand in his hair)
“I’m sorry,” Fernando draws with his finger pads against Sergio’s shoulder.
Sergio kisses him with teeth to tell him that he’s not going to accept it.
(He does)
He catches a Liverpool game late one night, almost five weeks later.
He doesn’t really mean to, but Raúl is the only one more or less camping out in his apartment, trying his best as maybe a friend, or maybe just as Sergio’s captain, to fix his (once again) broken heart.
Sergio just wants to forget he still has a heart altogether.
Raúl frowns when he switches over the channel, and sights Anfield, where clear sunlight slants over the stadium and the kop cheers endlessly.
He shouts when Fernando scores, heart beating wildly as he volleys it in the net past the keeper, his hear beating symphonies of maybe loss, maybe pride, and mostly the things he can’t squeeze out when Fernando is there, with him.
He hears how the crowd rolls into the Torres Torres chant, and he slumps back into the sofa again, heart still beating like it’s going to beat out of his body altogether.
Or as if to say tough luck, but here I am, and generally just mock Sergio’s existence.
When the second line of his armband proved he was a red, torres torres, drifts from the speaker like it’s a wave out on the ocean, Raúl shuts the TV off.
“You can’t keep on doing this,” he declares, but the tone is soft and it isn’t as Sergio’s captain he says that he needs to pull himself the fuck together.
Sergio sighs, looking out the window. “You know, it’s the only way I can keep seeing him, all year. He’s not here.”
Raúl doesn’t reply to that, and Sergio doesn’t think he wants him to, because it'd just be i know because Raúl does, indeed, know.
When Sergio gets called up for a national friendly, a month later, he accepts, and hopes that he won’t have to see Fernando, at the same time as he wants to.
Fernando doesn’t call this time either, he simply shows up at Sergio’s doorstep, and Sergio hugs him long and hard and lets him in.
It’s a little colder, and Fernando is wearing a sweater.
A little later, summer sloping into autumn, but Sergio’ll continue to want Fernando there, to miss him, to damn well love him, to respond like he’s used to when Fernando calls him Sese, softly, and when he wants him to show him more chords.
Being heartbroken isn’t something excessive, it isn’t unreal and it hurts, it aches and the ache doesn’t ever quite leave you.
But when Fernando comes to visit, puts his hands in the curves of Sergio’s hips and presses his lips to the patch of skin just under Sergio’s ear and they simultaneously just express, that I miss you, it’s bearable.