need
title need
prompt 097. writer's choice: need
word count 1,645
pairing david silva/sergio ramos
summary written for footballkink: Ramos/Silva. Don't ask me why, I just think it'd be adorable. Feel free to throw in something about them being drawn together because they're both in love with married men (i.e. Torres and Villa) or Silva being homesick for Spain after moving to Man City (wouldn't you go to Sergio if you wanted a dose of Spain?) or all of the above. Or not! Up to you.
notes also for go_for_it_kid, who requested sergio/silva. ♥
There isn’t a moment of coming together. Instead it’s the ache in Sergio’s chest when he sees Fernando twirling his wedding ring around his finger, and the matching ache he sees in Silva’s eyes when he looks up.
---
South Africa is, more often than not, cold and rainy, and Sergio spends most of his time inside, with is iPod on. On the days when Fernando’s busy Skyping with Olalla, he makes his way into Pepe’s room, where there’s always a card game going. He never actually plays -Sergio isn’t stupid enough to actually want to lose all of his money to the Barcelona boys- but it’s nice, to sit and watch and not be alone in a room meant for two.
“It doesn’t get easier than this, does it?” Silva asks him one afternoon, rain slanting against the windows. Pepe’s room is full and loud, but Silva’s voice is quiet, enough that Sergio has to lean in a bit to hear him. When he does, he takes a quick glance around the room. “He’s not here,” Silva says, crossing his arms. “Patricia called.”
“Oh,” Sergio breathes. He thinks for a moment of Fernando, locked in their bathroom -so as to not disturb Sergio- with his laptop and his wife, and then he reaches out and drapes an arm over the back of Silva’s chair. Pepe catches his eye and grins, gesturing at the card table. Sergio raises his eyebrow playfully and shakes his head, but when he answers Silva, there’s no laughter in his voice. “It only gets harder.”
---
Subtlety is not Sergio’s strong point, and it never has been, so he sees no issue with wrapping himself up in the same flag as Fernando, with sharing a beer, with staying next to him for the entire parade. At this point for them, he thinks, it’s normal to drape himself over the striker and sing loudly in his ear. What still isn’t normal -and never will be, he thinks- is that he can’t go to Fernando’s apartment on weekends and play ProEvo and fall asleep on the couch anymore, because Fernando’s apartment isn’t his anymore.
Silva watches him cling to Fernando all through the celebrations, and as they leave the stage, drunk and exhausted at the end of the night, they drift together, letting their wayward partners lean on each other for a bit.
“You make it look so easy,” Silva says. His voice is louder than it should be, and he sways a bit when he walks. Sergio puts his arm over the smaller man’s shoulders- to steady him out, he tells himself. But Silva burrows into his side as they stumble out onto the street and Sergio doesn’t complain.
“Gotta take what you can,” Sergio replies. His ears ring from the celebration and from the cheering still going on. “How long are you still in Valencia?”
Silva bites his lip and takes a minute to answer. “Few days,” is what he says. He looks miserable.
“Call me, Enano,” Sergio tells him. “If you need help, whatever.”
They kiss that night, drunk and happy and high on winning, tempered only by wedding rings and babies. It’s sloppy and fast in the lobby of Silva’s hotel, and Sergio doesn’t even know why he’s there, because his house is on the other side of the city, but it doesn’t matter when he shepherds Silva into an empty stairwell and presses him up against the wall. It doesn’t matter when Silva’s hands come up to tangle in his hair and their tongues slide together, hot and wet.
Silva pulls back first, his lips puffy and his eyes shining. “I’ll miss you, Gitano.”
Sergio salutes him as he pulls the door open and calls himself a cab.
---
“Is it weird that I miss Valencia because of him?”
Sergio knows why Silva calls him. There are two reasons. The first is the same as it’s always been- wedding rings and babies and women. Sergio doesn’t mind. It’s what they have in common, a lament that never grows old. It doesn’t matter that he hasn’t talked to Fernando nearly as frequently as he has Silva for the past few months. Locked up together in a hotel room, it’s easy to dream, but here, when he’s alone in Madrid, it’s easy to realize that he and Fernando will never be. He will never be what Fernando needs.
He can be what Silva needs, though, and for that reason he looks forward to each and every phone call.
“Dunno, Enano. I’ve never been somewhere Fer wasn’t.”
Silva hums into the phone, and Sergio shifts to put him on speakerphone. “What else do you miss?”
“Sun,” Silva answers instantly. “I miss sun. And hot afternoons. It’s never hot here. And I miss eating late and afternoon siestas.”
“Yeah?”
“Mmhmm. Hey, Gitano, tell me about Madrid. What’s happening in Madrid now.”
Sergio picks up the phone and goes to the window, pushing it open and sticking his head out. “It’s hot,” he tells Silva. “No clouds. There’s a guy playing guitar on the street.”
“What else?”
Sergio tells him about the sky and the buildings and the people walking by, what their accents are. He makes up stories for some of them; for others, he just describes. He knows Silva isn’t listening as much to his words as to the cadence of his voice, the way he speaks, the background noise, so he holds the phone out the window, too, and lets Silva hear the Spanish air.
He doesn’t mind that Silva calls him because he needs to be reminded of Spain. He likes that he can be the one to provide such memories.
---
“We’re playing United this week,” Sergio says the next time Silva calls. “Champions league.”
“Oh,” Silva says. There’s a brief silence that seems to stretch into eternity. “Come over after.”
---
Silva’s apartment is new. The walls are white and the furniture has no signs of wear. Sergio looks around cautiously, afraid to leave a fingerprint anywhere.
“Would you rather have gone to see Fernando?”
Sergio’s response comes slowly, his voice deep and tired. “No,” he says. “No.”
Then the space between them is gone and Sergio engulfs Silva in his arms, bracketing the smaller player, crushing him to his chest. Silva hooks his chin over Sergio’s shoulder and breathes in the scent of Sergio’s hair, his skin, clean from the shower but it still feels more like home than anything else in Manchester.
“Why?” Silva asks. His breath tickles the skin behind Sergio’s ear.
“He doesn’t need me,” Sergio replies, pushing Silva away a little bit to stare at him. Silva’s eyes are big and brown but they are not innocent, not in the slightest. He stares back, resolute.
“And I do.”
Sergio lets out a throaty laugh. “You invited me here, didn’t you?”
“Point,” Silva concedes. Then he steps away, out of the reach of Sergio’s arms, and heads towards the kitchen. “Beer?”
“Sorry, what?”
“I’m not having sex with you because I need you, Sergio, what the fuck,” Silva replies, coming back into the living room and handing Sergio a bottle. “Make yourself comfortable.”
Sergio falls asleep on Silva’s couch and is almost late to get back to the hotel. He sneaks out of the apartment quietly enough, but not without leaving a note.
didn’t mean to insult you. sorry, man. call me whenever.
---
“We’re playing Atletico in two weeks,” Silva says the next time he calls Sergio, a month later. Sergio hums into the phone.
“Wanna come over?”
---
They don’t stand around talking, not this time. Instead, Silva backs Sergio up against the wall and presses their lips together, just as hot and messy as the first time, with more teeth than Sergio would usually appreciate. Silva’s hands push against his hips and fly up his chest and into his hair and Sergio feels him everywhere, burning through layers of trackpants and t-shirts.
Sergio pushes on Silva’s shoulders until they’re standing at arm’s length from each other, chests heaving and lips swollen.
“Bedroom,” Silva insists, reaching down to tug on Sergio’s beltloop, so Sergio wraps his fingers loosely around Silva’s wrist and leads him through the apartment and into his bedroom, where they topple onto the too-large bed.
They make out lazily for a while, despite Silva’s apparent haste, learning each other’s mouths, pushing aside shirts. Serigio settles against the pillows and pulls Silva on top of him, cradling the Canarian in the spread of his legs. Silva sits back, grinds down onto Sergio’s lap, and they both groan softly for how hard Sergio is in his pants.
Silva dips his fingers underneath the waistband of Sergio’s pants and tugs, exposing the sharp cut of Sergio’s hipbones, the tattoo that rides low on his belly. Silva traces the design and watches as the muscles in Sergio’s stomach go taught, brown skin rippling underneath his fingers. He tugs the pants lower and slides off of Sergio just enough for the defender to shimmy out of them before he reaches out and trails his fingers down from the tattoo, wrapping his fist around Sergio’s cock and jerking him in lazy strokes.
“Fuck me,” he says, and it’s not a question.
---
When Silva leaves, there isn’t a note, but when Sergio gets home from practice the next day, there’s a text waiting on his phone.
u were right.
Another one comes a few minutes later.
i did need u.
Sergio doesn’t bother to text, instead scrolling through his contacts until he gets to Silva and pressing ‘call’.
“Did or do?”
The silence stretches for long minutes, but Sergio is content to wait. He leans against the window and hums flamenco under his breath.
“Do,” Silva says, finally.
The next time Sergio goes to England, he doesn’t even think about going to Liverpool.
prompt 097. writer's choice: need
word count 1,645
pairing david silva/sergio ramos
summary written for footballkink: Ramos/Silva. Don't ask me why, I just think it'd be adorable. Feel free to throw in something about them being drawn together because they're both in love with married men (i.e. Torres and Villa) or Silva being homesick for Spain after moving to Man City (wouldn't you go to Sergio if you wanted a dose of Spain?) or all of the above. Or not! Up to you.
notes also for go_for_it_kid, who requested sergio/silva. ♥
There isn’t a moment of coming together. Instead it’s the ache in Sergio’s chest when he sees Fernando twirling his wedding ring around his finger, and the matching ache he sees in Silva’s eyes when he looks up.
---
South Africa is, more often than not, cold and rainy, and Sergio spends most of his time inside, with is iPod on. On the days when Fernando’s busy Skyping with Olalla, he makes his way into Pepe’s room, where there’s always a card game going. He never actually plays -Sergio isn’t stupid enough to actually want to lose all of his money to the Barcelona boys- but it’s nice, to sit and watch and not be alone in a room meant for two.
“It doesn’t get easier than this, does it?” Silva asks him one afternoon, rain slanting against the windows. Pepe’s room is full and loud, but Silva’s voice is quiet, enough that Sergio has to lean in a bit to hear him. When he does, he takes a quick glance around the room. “He’s not here,” Silva says, crossing his arms. “Patricia called.”
“Oh,” Sergio breathes. He thinks for a moment of Fernando, locked in their bathroom -so as to not disturb Sergio- with his laptop and his wife, and then he reaches out and drapes an arm over the back of Silva’s chair. Pepe catches his eye and grins, gesturing at the card table. Sergio raises his eyebrow playfully and shakes his head, but when he answers Silva, there’s no laughter in his voice. “It only gets harder.”
---
Subtlety is not Sergio’s strong point, and it never has been, so he sees no issue with wrapping himself up in the same flag as Fernando, with sharing a beer, with staying next to him for the entire parade. At this point for them, he thinks, it’s normal to drape himself over the striker and sing loudly in his ear. What still isn’t normal -and never will be, he thinks- is that he can’t go to Fernando’s apartment on weekends and play ProEvo and fall asleep on the couch anymore, because Fernando’s apartment isn’t his anymore.
Silva watches him cling to Fernando all through the celebrations, and as they leave the stage, drunk and exhausted at the end of the night, they drift together, letting their wayward partners lean on each other for a bit.
“You make it look so easy,” Silva says. His voice is louder than it should be, and he sways a bit when he walks. Sergio puts his arm over the smaller man’s shoulders- to steady him out, he tells himself. But Silva burrows into his side as they stumble out onto the street and Sergio doesn’t complain.
“Gotta take what you can,” Sergio replies. His ears ring from the celebration and from the cheering still going on. “How long are you still in Valencia?”
Silva bites his lip and takes a minute to answer. “Few days,” is what he says. He looks miserable.
“Call me, Enano,” Sergio tells him. “If you need help, whatever.”
They kiss that night, drunk and happy and high on winning, tempered only by wedding rings and babies. It’s sloppy and fast in the lobby of Silva’s hotel, and Sergio doesn’t even know why he’s there, because his house is on the other side of the city, but it doesn’t matter when he shepherds Silva into an empty stairwell and presses him up against the wall. It doesn’t matter when Silva’s hands come up to tangle in his hair and their tongues slide together, hot and wet.
Silva pulls back first, his lips puffy and his eyes shining. “I’ll miss you, Gitano.”
Sergio salutes him as he pulls the door open and calls himself a cab.
---
“Is it weird that I miss Valencia because of him?”
Sergio knows why Silva calls him. There are two reasons. The first is the same as it’s always been- wedding rings and babies and women. Sergio doesn’t mind. It’s what they have in common, a lament that never grows old. It doesn’t matter that he hasn’t talked to Fernando nearly as frequently as he has Silva for the past few months. Locked up together in a hotel room, it’s easy to dream, but here, when he’s alone in Madrid, it’s easy to realize that he and Fernando will never be. He will never be what Fernando needs.
He can be what Silva needs, though, and for that reason he looks forward to each and every phone call.
“Dunno, Enano. I’ve never been somewhere Fer wasn’t.”
Silva hums into the phone, and Sergio shifts to put him on speakerphone. “What else do you miss?”
“Sun,” Silva answers instantly. “I miss sun. And hot afternoons. It’s never hot here. And I miss eating late and afternoon siestas.”
“Yeah?”
“Mmhmm. Hey, Gitano, tell me about Madrid. What’s happening in Madrid now.”
Sergio picks up the phone and goes to the window, pushing it open and sticking his head out. “It’s hot,” he tells Silva. “No clouds. There’s a guy playing guitar on the street.”
“What else?”
Sergio tells him about the sky and the buildings and the people walking by, what their accents are. He makes up stories for some of them; for others, he just describes. He knows Silva isn’t listening as much to his words as to the cadence of his voice, the way he speaks, the background noise, so he holds the phone out the window, too, and lets Silva hear the Spanish air.
He doesn’t mind that Silva calls him because he needs to be reminded of Spain. He likes that he can be the one to provide such memories.
---
“We’re playing United this week,” Sergio says the next time Silva calls. “Champions league.”
“Oh,” Silva says. There’s a brief silence that seems to stretch into eternity. “Come over after.”
---
Silva’s apartment is new. The walls are white and the furniture has no signs of wear. Sergio looks around cautiously, afraid to leave a fingerprint anywhere.
“Would you rather have gone to see Fernando?”
Sergio’s response comes slowly, his voice deep and tired. “No,” he says. “No.”
Then the space between them is gone and Sergio engulfs Silva in his arms, bracketing the smaller player, crushing him to his chest. Silva hooks his chin over Sergio’s shoulder and breathes in the scent of Sergio’s hair, his skin, clean from the shower but it still feels more like home than anything else in Manchester.
“Why?” Silva asks. His breath tickles the skin behind Sergio’s ear.
“He doesn’t need me,” Sergio replies, pushing Silva away a little bit to stare at him. Silva’s eyes are big and brown but they are not innocent, not in the slightest. He stares back, resolute.
“And I do.”
Sergio lets out a throaty laugh. “You invited me here, didn’t you?”
“Point,” Silva concedes. Then he steps away, out of the reach of Sergio’s arms, and heads towards the kitchen. “Beer?”
“Sorry, what?”
“I’m not having sex with you because I need you, Sergio, what the fuck,” Silva replies, coming back into the living room and handing Sergio a bottle. “Make yourself comfortable.”
Sergio falls asleep on Silva’s couch and is almost late to get back to the hotel. He sneaks out of the apartment quietly enough, but not without leaving a note.
didn’t mean to insult you. sorry, man. call me whenever.
---
“We’re playing Atletico in two weeks,” Silva says the next time he calls Sergio, a month later. Sergio hums into the phone.
“Wanna come over?”
---
They don’t stand around talking, not this time. Instead, Silva backs Sergio up against the wall and presses their lips together, just as hot and messy as the first time, with more teeth than Sergio would usually appreciate. Silva’s hands push against his hips and fly up his chest and into his hair and Sergio feels him everywhere, burning through layers of trackpants and t-shirts.
Sergio pushes on Silva’s shoulders until they’re standing at arm’s length from each other, chests heaving and lips swollen.
“Bedroom,” Silva insists, reaching down to tug on Sergio’s beltloop, so Sergio wraps his fingers loosely around Silva’s wrist and leads him through the apartment and into his bedroom, where they topple onto the too-large bed.
They make out lazily for a while, despite Silva’s apparent haste, learning each other’s mouths, pushing aside shirts. Serigio settles against the pillows and pulls Silva on top of him, cradling the Canarian in the spread of his legs. Silva sits back, grinds down onto Sergio’s lap, and they both groan softly for how hard Sergio is in his pants.
Silva dips his fingers underneath the waistband of Sergio’s pants and tugs, exposing the sharp cut of Sergio’s hipbones, the tattoo that rides low on his belly. Silva traces the design and watches as the muscles in Sergio’s stomach go taught, brown skin rippling underneath his fingers. He tugs the pants lower and slides off of Sergio just enough for the defender to shimmy out of them before he reaches out and trails his fingers down from the tattoo, wrapping his fist around Sergio’s cock and jerking him in lazy strokes.
“Fuck me,” he says, and it’s not a question.
---
When Silva leaves, there isn’t a note, but when Sergio gets home from practice the next day, there’s a text waiting on his phone.
u were right.
Another one comes a few minutes later.
i did need u.
Sergio doesn’t bother to text, instead scrolling through his contacts until he gets to Silva and pressing ‘call’.
“Did or do?”
The silence stretches for long minutes, but Sergio is content to wait. He leans against the window and hums flamenco under his breath.
“Do,” Silva says, finally.
The next time Sergio goes to England, he doesn’t even think about going to Liverpool.