yo pego un tiro al aire
Title: Yo pego un tiro al aire
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sergio Ramos/Fernando Torres
Disclaimer: Fiction.
Summary: But the plan is thwarted by the Sevillano Sergio Ramos.
“What?” Fernando finally asks, setting his monthly imported issue of PC Gamer down on the bed. He stares back at his new roommate, who is sitting cross-legged on the floor and studying the striker’s face intently.
The Sevillano Sergio Ramos, who seems pleased with Fernando’s awareness at last, lowers the volume on his loudspeakers and allows El Camarón’s zesty vocals to fade into the backdrop. “Are you really twenty-one?” he then demands to know.
Fernando blinks.
“Because you don’t look it,” the Sevillano Sergio Ramos explains. “In fact, you look younger than I do, and I’m only nineteen.”
“Um.”
“I’m the youngest player to play for us in the last 55 years, you know.”
“Great.”
“Yeah,” the Sevillano Sergio Ramos agrees, sounding slightly put off by Fernando’s lack of enthusiasm for his impressive feat. After a sullen moment, he adds, “But I hear you were the youngest player to score for us or something.”
“Mm.” Fernando wonders briefly if it isn’t too late to switch rooms with Salgado-or, even better, to persuade Aragonés to return the right-back position to Salgado and send the Sevillano Sergio Ramos, with his annoying flamenco music and threatening overtness, home. He decides somehow that both attempts would probably be futile and that he, for the moment at least, should give his attention to the seductive, soon-to-be-released EverQuest II: Desert of Flames ad-
But the plan is thwarted by the Sevillano Sergio Ramos, who interrupts: “Are you only capable of monosyllabic responses?”
Fernando considers it. “No.”
“I see.” Then, once more before Fernando could answer the beck of the Wand of the Second Life, the Sevillano Sergio Ramos is on his bed, dizzyingly close and smelling faintly of anís and black tea. Fernando recoils against the headboard, but makes a weak effort to save his quite expensive €9.15.
“Watch it!” he says when the Sevillano Sergio Ramos forces a dent on the cover with a sharp knee.
“Two syllables,” the Sevillano Sergio Ramos murmurs, permitting Fernando to swipe the magazine from beneath him, and then sighs. He is still too close and Fernando feels flushed, warm, and wanting to push him away when the Sevillano Sergio Ramos presses his head to Fernando’s shoulder and keeps it there. Fernando sits, frozen-lets him.
“Niño,” the Sevillano Sergio Ramos whispers, “why haven’t you noticed me?”
Fernando, with his heart palpitating, considers it. He tries to look down at the buried face in his shoulder and figures that the Sevillano Sergio Ramos isn’t a terrible roommate, even if he is aromatically intoxicating. But Fernando can barely hear the gypsy in background now and his PC Gamer remains in relatively good condition; and, yes, he really is twenty-one, in fit form with his national team and captain of his club. And the Sevillano Sergio Ramos is nineteen, Fernando recalls, with a brilliant smile and admirable hair and odd taste in music, but Fernando thinks that’s fair enough; his skills on the pitch are redeeming qualities anyway.
So he places a palm gently against the Sevillano Sergio Ramos’s cheek and lifts his face and holds it; holds his gaze, then his hands.
“Well, I suppose I have.”
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sergio Ramos/Fernando Torres
Disclaimer: Fiction.
Summary: But the plan is thwarted by the Sevillano Sergio Ramos.
“What?” Fernando finally asks, setting his monthly imported issue of PC Gamer down on the bed. He stares back at his new roommate, who is sitting cross-legged on the floor and studying the striker’s face intently.
The Sevillano Sergio Ramos, who seems pleased with Fernando’s awareness at last, lowers the volume on his loudspeakers and allows El Camarón’s zesty vocals to fade into the backdrop. “Are you really twenty-one?” he then demands to know.
Fernando blinks.
“Because you don’t look it,” the Sevillano Sergio Ramos explains. “In fact, you look younger than I do, and I’m only nineteen.”
“Um.”
“I’m the youngest player to play for us in the last 55 years, you know.”
“Great.”
“Yeah,” the Sevillano Sergio Ramos agrees, sounding slightly put off by Fernando’s lack of enthusiasm for his impressive feat. After a sullen moment, he adds, “But I hear you were the youngest player to score for us or something.”
“Mm.” Fernando wonders briefly if it isn’t too late to switch rooms with Salgado-or, even better, to persuade Aragonés to return the right-back position to Salgado and send the Sevillano Sergio Ramos, with his annoying flamenco music and threatening overtness, home. He decides somehow that both attempts would probably be futile and that he, for the moment at least, should give his attention to the seductive, soon-to-be-released EverQuest II: Desert of Flames ad-
But the plan is thwarted by the Sevillano Sergio Ramos, who interrupts: “Are you only capable of monosyllabic responses?”
Fernando considers it. “No.”
“I see.” Then, once more before Fernando could answer the beck of the Wand of the Second Life, the Sevillano Sergio Ramos is on his bed, dizzyingly close and smelling faintly of anís and black tea. Fernando recoils against the headboard, but makes a weak effort to save his quite expensive €9.15.
“Watch it!” he says when the Sevillano Sergio Ramos forces a dent on the cover with a sharp knee.
“Two syllables,” the Sevillano Sergio Ramos murmurs, permitting Fernando to swipe the magazine from beneath him, and then sighs. He is still too close and Fernando feels flushed, warm, and wanting to push him away when the Sevillano Sergio Ramos presses his head to Fernando’s shoulder and keeps it there. Fernando sits, frozen-lets him.
“Niño,” the Sevillano Sergio Ramos whispers, “why haven’t you noticed me?”
Fernando, with his heart palpitating, considers it. He tries to look down at the buried face in his shoulder and figures that the Sevillano Sergio Ramos isn’t a terrible roommate, even if he is aromatically intoxicating. But Fernando can barely hear the gypsy in background now and his PC Gamer remains in relatively good condition; and, yes, he really is twenty-one, in fit form with his national team and captain of his club. And the Sevillano Sergio Ramos is nineteen, Fernando recalls, with a brilliant smile and admirable hair and odd taste in music, but Fernando thinks that’s fair enough; his skills on the pitch are redeeming qualities anyway.
So he places a palm gently against the Sevillano Sergio Ramos’s cheek and lifts his face and holds it; holds his gaze, then his hands.
“Well, I suppose I have.”