the aeroplane over the sea
title the aeroplane over the sea
pairing sergio ramos/fernando torres
rating pg
prompt 037. sound
word count 597
title from the neutral milk hotel song "in the aeroplane over the sea". cliche, i know, but i couldn't resist. for go_for_it_kid, the first of your requests :]
They sit next to each other on the plane.
Fernando is sitting the window seat already, so Sergio slides in next to him, stretching his legs out. Fernando is clearly distracted, his forehead pressed against the window, so Sergio leans over until his hair brushes the striker’s shoulder and his lips are centimeters away from his ear.
“Hey,” he whispers, grinning when Fernando startles. He’s glad to see the striker’s glare is mocking and Sergio settles back into his own seat, tucking his hair behind his ears.
“Fucker,” Fernando grins, no menace in his voice. He turns in his seat and Sergio lets himself drink in the look of the striker, freckled as usual. There are still dark circles under his eyes, but he there’s more color to his cheeks than there was when he first arrived in Spain. The past few weeks, being away from England and all the stress of his club, only having to focus on one goal, had done him good, Sergio figures. He reaches out and scrubs a hand over Fernando’s short, dark hair, still used to long blond locks.
“Feeling okay?” Sergio asks, dropping his hand from Fernando’s head to his knee. He rubs small circles through Fernando’s suit pants and lets his palm rest on Fernando’s thigh, heavy and warm.
Fernando shrugs. “Yeah, I guess. A little stiff.” Sergio raises an eyebrow, and Fernando laughs. “Oh, shut up.”
“Hey, I didn’t say anything,” Sergio protests, throwing his hands up and laughing.
“Whatever,” Fernando groans playfully. He grins for a moment and then yawns. “Wake me up when we get there?”
They fall asleep separately, Fernando with his head against the window again, and Sergio with his iPod on, but their knees knock gently when they shift positions.
Sergio wakes slowly, his head pillowed on Fernando’s shoulder, hearing familiar music. He realizes as he snuggles his face down further into Fernando’s shoulder that it isn’t coming from his own headphones, which have slipped down around his neck. He tries to pick his head up and is met with slight resistance, Fernando’s head lolling on top of his own. Forcing his eyes open, Sergio pushes the weight of Fernando’s head off, picking himself up slightly. The music is coming from Fernando’s iPod, one earbud dangling, the other in place.
“Hey,” Sergio mumbles, his voice scratchy and low. He pushes gently at Fernando’s shoulder and lets his head drop back down until Fernando grunts and opens one of his eyes. “Hey, you still listen to that?”
Fernando fumbles for his iPod, trying to see what he’s listening to, and he finds the playlist Sergio made for him at the Eurocopa. He laughs a little, his own voice coming slowly to the surface, deeper than usual. “Yeah,” he says, shrugging. Sergio picks his head back up. “Before every game.”
“Really?”
Fernando reaches up and tucks a piece of Sergio’s hair behind his ear. He lets his hand linger, cupping the Sevillan’s jaw. “Really.”
Sergio pushes the arm of the seat in between them up and snuggles into Fernando’s side. Fernando slides his arm around and lets his fingers spread out over Sergio’s bicep, keeping him in place. “Good,” Sergio mumbles, mouthing sleepily at the place where Fernando’s neck meets his shoulder.
They settle in for the rest of the flight, pulling a blanket over their legs, and Sergio takes the earbud Fernando isn’t using, swiping the striker’s iPod and finding a flamenco playlist he’d made for Fernando, right before he left for Liverpool. ”So you won’t forget,” he’d said.
Neither of them has forgotten.
pairing sergio ramos/fernando torres
rating pg
prompt 037. sound
word count 597
title from the neutral milk hotel song "in the aeroplane over the sea". cliche, i know, but i couldn't resist. for go_for_it_kid, the first of your requests :]
They sit next to each other on the plane.
Fernando is sitting the window seat already, so Sergio slides in next to him, stretching his legs out. Fernando is clearly distracted, his forehead pressed against the window, so Sergio leans over until his hair brushes the striker’s shoulder and his lips are centimeters away from his ear.
“Hey,” he whispers, grinning when Fernando startles. He’s glad to see the striker’s glare is mocking and Sergio settles back into his own seat, tucking his hair behind his ears.
“Fucker,” Fernando grins, no menace in his voice. He turns in his seat and Sergio lets himself drink in the look of the striker, freckled as usual. There are still dark circles under his eyes, but he there’s more color to his cheeks than there was when he first arrived in Spain. The past few weeks, being away from England and all the stress of his club, only having to focus on one goal, had done him good, Sergio figures. He reaches out and scrubs a hand over Fernando’s short, dark hair, still used to long blond locks.
“Feeling okay?” Sergio asks, dropping his hand from Fernando’s head to his knee. He rubs small circles through Fernando’s suit pants and lets his palm rest on Fernando’s thigh, heavy and warm.
Fernando shrugs. “Yeah, I guess. A little stiff.” Sergio raises an eyebrow, and Fernando laughs. “Oh, shut up.”
“Hey, I didn’t say anything,” Sergio protests, throwing his hands up and laughing.
“Whatever,” Fernando groans playfully. He grins for a moment and then yawns. “Wake me up when we get there?”
They fall asleep separately, Fernando with his head against the window again, and Sergio with his iPod on, but their knees knock gently when they shift positions.
Sergio wakes slowly, his head pillowed on Fernando’s shoulder, hearing familiar music. He realizes as he snuggles his face down further into Fernando’s shoulder that it isn’t coming from his own headphones, which have slipped down around his neck. He tries to pick his head up and is met with slight resistance, Fernando’s head lolling on top of his own. Forcing his eyes open, Sergio pushes the weight of Fernando’s head off, picking himself up slightly. The music is coming from Fernando’s iPod, one earbud dangling, the other in place.
“Hey,” Sergio mumbles, his voice scratchy and low. He pushes gently at Fernando’s shoulder and lets his head drop back down until Fernando grunts and opens one of his eyes. “Hey, you still listen to that?”
Fernando fumbles for his iPod, trying to see what he’s listening to, and he finds the playlist Sergio made for him at the Eurocopa. He laughs a little, his own voice coming slowly to the surface, deeper than usual. “Yeah,” he says, shrugging. Sergio picks his head back up. “Before every game.”
“Really?”
Fernando reaches up and tucks a piece of Sergio’s hair behind his ear. He lets his hand linger, cupping the Sevillan’s jaw. “Really.”
Sergio pushes the arm of the seat in between them up and snuggles into Fernando’s side. Fernando slides his arm around and lets his fingers spread out over Sergio’s bicep, keeping him in place. “Good,” Sergio mumbles, mouthing sleepily at the place where Fernando’s neck meets his shoulder.
They settle in for the rest of the flight, pulling a blanket over their legs, and Sergio takes the earbud Fernando isn’t using, swiping the striker’s iPod and finding a flamenco playlist he’d made for Fernando, right before he left for Liverpool. ”So you won’t forget,” he’d said.
Neither of them has forgotten.