Fic: A Year in the Sweet Life
Title A Year in The Sweet Life
Fandom Football RPF
Pairing: Fernando Torres/Sergio Ramos
Rating PG-13
Word Count: 1398
Disclaimer: Yeah... no.
Notes: Another segment brought to you by an epic baking spree. Also trying my hand at self-infused vodka and said vodka tastings. Apologies for an incoherentness or cravings. Also posted on AO3. Previous parts here and here.
Summary: Fernando moves in on a Sunday, because that is the only day the patisserie is closed. Sergio is all for hiring professionals but Fernando and the rest of the shop boys shoot him down. It was actually for the best, he thinks eyeing Fernando who’s bent over to pick up another box.
Or " 5 Slice of life cake scenes from This is the Sweet Life.
I.
Fernando takes one look at him and shakes his head. “No, absolutely not.” He motions with a fondant leveler, “get out.”
“What did I do?” Sergio asks bewildered but doesn’t get an answer.
Fernando returns to the cake he’s working on, a thirty-pound behemoth shaped like someone sticking out a middle finger (who is he to judge the client), and continues to ignore his boyfriend. Sergio settles in to watch, sprawled on his usual stool at the end of the counter.
Usually the pastry chef is utterly focused when there’s a piece of work in front of him, but today, he keeps on flicking his eyes to the footballer in the room and causing ripples to form in the icing.
“This isn’t working.” He sighs. “You need to leave.”
“What’s wrong babe?” Sergio asks worryingly. His heart feels like he’s run for 120 minutes straight and then blew his penalty kick (been there done that) when he hears that. Sergio has no idea what’s going on with his boyfriend, they had been completely fine yesterday, and he’s pretty sure today’s date doesn’t hold any sort of special meaning which rules out missing an anniversary. “Did I do something?”
“Yes!” Fernando throws down his tool in frustration, the sound of the spatula clattering echoes ominously in the kitchen. “Your hair is driving me absolutely nuts! How am I supposed to concentrate when that bleached monstrosity is in my baking area?”
The footballer resists the urge to simultaneously laugh and sigh in relief. He almost thought Fernando was going to break up with him moments earlier. “Actually,” he explains, “I thought it would be inspiring. I even spiked it to make it look like peaks of meringue!”
II.
“I was wondering if you could get me something when you’re in Germany.” Fernando says the week after their Champions league group was drawn.
“Sure babe, whatever you want.” Sergio instantly agrees. What’s the point of making millions if he can’t lavish it on the love of his life. It’s so rare that Fernando asks him to buy him anything; in his head he’s already planning to update half the clothes in the chef’s wardrobe.
It’s the day before Sergio’s flight to Dortmund with the team when Fernando slips him a slip of paper.
“What’s this?” Sergio asks.
“The address of the shop.” Fernando replies.
“What shop?”
“The bread shop.” He says nonchalantly, “Didn’t you agree to get me something?”
“Yeah…” Sergio is still confused, he knows he’s not as smart as his boyfriend sometimes, but right now what ever they are talking about is flying right over his head. “I already pre-ordered what I’m getting you!” He thinks about the fur jacket with neon patches and almost erupts in excitement.
“Oh god.” Fernando suppresses the urge to shudder. “I have no idea what you got me, and I hope there’s a return policy. I was asking you to get me some Schwarzbrot starter dough.”
“You want me to bring you dough back from Germany?” Sergio asks incredulously. “You are kidding me.”
“Yeah. I finally found a baker who would release a batch of his 30-year running sourdough starter. He’s charging me 300 euros for two ounces.” Fernando grumbles, but pleased at the thought of getting his dough.
Sergio sighs and thinks he should’ve known better. Fernando is droning on about keeping the dough at a specific temperature and humidity, but all he can think about is the furry jacket, and the three pairs of lederhosen. Maybe he can hold the dough as hostage until Fernando agrees to dress up in leather breeches.
III.
“What the fuck is that.”
It was said with so much hate that Sergio almost drops the cup of water he is holding, Fernando rarely curses outside of sex or baking.
“What is what?” He asks carefully, looking to see what’s gotten his boyfriend all worked up.
“That!” The finger points to a box on the counter.
“Oh, it’s a bread machine. KitchenAid is our newest sponsor, so they gave each us one to take home.” He explains.
“Get rid of it.”
“What?”
“That monstrosity is the reason why people don’t care about what they eat anymore. It is single handedly contributing towards the decline in bakeries around the world.” Fernando spits out.
“Honey. Nando.” He tries to placate the older man. “It’s just a machine.”
“It’s a machine that thinks it’s better than me.” Fernando crosses his arms. “It goes.” Or I go doesn’t need to be said out loud.
“Okay, okay.” Sergio dutifully carries his brand new work perk to the curb; all the while secretly hoping someone rescues the poor unused machine. When he comes back in, Fernando is still glaring at the spot on the counter where it used to be, like it needs disinfecting with bleach.
“It will never replace you, you know.” He wraps his arms against his petulant boyfriend. “You’re the only for me. And if you weren’t around, I would rather not eat bread.”
That’s one of the best compliments Fernando has ever gotten.
IV.
Text from Mari Paz:
7:32pm ARE YOU SLEEPING WITH SERGIO RAMOS?!!!@!@!
7:32pm HOW COULD YOU NOT TELL ME????? RAWR!!!
7:33pm TELL ME THERE ARE PICTURES…
7:33pm ;-) be safe and use protection.
8:12pm PS. Can you get him to get me Cristiano’s underwear?
Text from Israel:
9:43am Saw you in a magazine picture with a long-haired girl.
9:44am When did you bag a hot model?
Text me all the details.
Text from Cesar:
Shop got mobbed today, lots of journalists and photographers and ran out of bread by 2pm.
Put in an order for more flour, we’re going to need it.
Email from Mom:
To: inquiry@elninobakery.es
From: flori.sanz@gmail.com
Subject: IMPORTANT FAMILY STUFF!!! READ THIS FIRST!!!
Your grandfather is too upset to come to the computer, so I’ll just transcribe what he’s saying:
Fernando José Torres Sanz. Did you forget where you were born? Did you forget about the family that raised you? Have you forgotten about your history, your culture, what color your blood bleeds? Let me tell you, it is not white. What were you thinking, hooking up with some merengue. Bring him for Sunday dinner next week, no excuses. If it’s the long hair and headband you’re into, at least go for Falcao.
It’s mom again. You know grandpa has high blood pressure, please try to avoid upsetting him. Remember he bought you your first set of measuring spoons, the least you could do is poison a batch of cookies for him during the next derby. I hope this Sergio fellow isn’t picky. I’ll make extra paella for next Sunday.
Love,
Mom.
Text from Israel:
11:38pm My wife says that’s not a guy????
V.
Fernando moves in on a Sunday, because that is the only day the patisserie is closed. Sergio is all for hiring professionals but Fernando and the rest of the shop boys shoot him down. It was actually for the best, he thinks eyeing Fernando who’s bent over to pick up another box.
Juan chucks a roll of tape at him. “Stop ogling the boss and help!”
Oriol and César are struggling futilely to push a ratty couch through the front, but it’s obvious that the doorframe is just not wide enough. The stubborn boys try a dozen combinations of squishing, tilting and even rolling without any success. Sergio makes a couple suggestions that he knows will be useless, but it’s fun to watch them take it seriously. Frankly, the couch is hideous, and if doesn’t fit through, they’ll have no choice but to get rid of it.
He’s already celebrating the victory in his head when Fernando sees them. “Oh that won’t fit. We’ll have to take it through the patio door out back.” He then pointedly glares at Sergio until the latter reluctantly picks up a corner and helps lift. Sometimes he wishes Fernando wasn’t so smart.
Later, when the floor is scattered with half-unpacked boxes and bubble wrap, they’re sitting on that same couch, drinking craft beer and munching on artisanal pizza. It’s actually pretty comfortable, Sergio thinks. And then even later, the boys are gone and so are their clothes, and Fernando’s bent over the couch moaning his name, Sergio’s pretty glad they have it after all.