master fic list
i figured it was about time for one, and while they're all stored on my fic journal, i like things to be neat and tidy.
composers
a riddle is hid in your eyes | franz liszt/frederic chopin, pg
The variation is hidden in a manuscript for a concerto Frédéric has no intention of finishing. Franz will not find it there, Frédéric thinks contentedly, not because he does not like the variation, but because it reads as a love letter.
skate slash
thought i saw you | apolo ohno/jr celski, nc-17
“So I’m thinking this is kind of fate,” Apolo says conversationally when he walks into the store on Sunday afternoon.
JR almost snorts coffee through his nose. “Sorry, what? Fate?”
"Well, I keep running into you all over the place, and you did say you weren’t stalking me, so it’s the next logical explanation,” Apolo explains, speaking slowly. JR feels like a little kid.
“I don’t think it counts as fate if you come to the store that you know I work at,” JR points out, and Apolo laughs. JR thinks he could get used to the sound. Jesus Christ, he really is turning into a fourteen year old girl.
another state of mind | apolo ohno/jr celski, pg-13
“Curling shoes?”
Apolo almost coughed out his drink. “Sorry, what?”
“You were looking up customizable curling shoes? And you thought you could distract me from it with shower sex?” JR sounded amused and not like he was going to leave Apolo for being weird and into curling. Apolo relaxed a little.
“Yeah, maybe,” he shrugged, returning to his breakfast.
arthurian legend
the grace of god | gawain/perceval, pg
He’s too distracted by the brightness in Perceval’s eyes to register much about his hand until later, as he opened and closed his own fist, feeling the calluses on his palm and cataloging the smoothness of Perceval’s skin, another layer of his youth.
tennis
blue blue sky | andy roddick/roger federer, pg
His hand is still numb and the sun is still beating down on him and all he wants is to go back to Texas and hear the rain against the windows and curl up on the couch to cheer Roger on in the final, because if he can’t win this thing, Rog damn well better.
football
i was meant to make you smile | gonzalo higuain/sergio ramos, nc-17
“Hey,” he says, a little confused, as the door swings shut.
“You should talk to him,” Iker says, his voice even. It isn’t his captain voice, so Gonzalo knows he doesn’t have to listen, it isn’t a requirement, but-
But Iker knows what he’s talking about, Gonzalo reminds himself. Iker knows what it’s like to be alone in the locker room and on the pitch and in a big empty house. Gonzalo wants to ask him, wants to know if there’s something he should’ve talked to Becks about, way back when, but Gonzalo knows he can’t. Iker’s past is his own. But maybe, he’s sharing with Gonzalo, a little bit. In his own way. In the way of goalkeepers, who spend their time staring contemplatively down the pitch and anticipating every possible move.
rosquitos | sergio ramos/fernando torres, pg-13
His mother’s tan hands cover Fernando’s freckled ones and shape them around the dough. Fernando’s still smiling, throwing glances over his shoulder every now and then at Sergio, who sits grinning back like an idiot, sipping his beer.
normal | fernando torres/sergio ramos, pg
“Normal,” Fernando finished for him, and Sergio hummed his agreement, quietly, cradling the phone between his shoulder and his ear. “Maybe- maybe someday, again- we can just be normal again.”
point of a knife | fernando torres/sergio ramos, pg
But the silence is easy, not hostile the way Fernando had anticipated it might be. They are two points of a knife, he thinks, deadly in their precision, and they are usually pointed at each other.
Now, they point the same direction.
spanish hands | sergio ramos/fernando torres, g
Sergio can almost see Fernando, standing at his counter with the phone tucked under his chin, his large hands working the small pastries, freckles even on his knuckles. He can see the watery sunlight coming in the bay window Olalla had insisted on, making Fernando’s skin look almost luminescent.
broke-down | sergio ramos/iker casillas, pg-13
“I just thought this year, it could be ours,” he says quietly. Iker nods, still silent.
to be there | sergio ramos/fernando torres, pg
Sergio smiles, takes a sip of the bottle he’s nursing. “Thanks,” he says, and when he blinks, his eyelashes cast long shadows over his cheeks.
the lives of others (hospital au) | sergio ramos/fernando torres, xabi alonso/stevie g, david villa/david silva, karim benzema/yoann gourcuff, iker casillas/cesc fabregas, guti/raul, r
“I think we’re good here for now,” Stevie said, clapping Sergio on the back. Sergio blinked a few times, eyes bleary. The clock on the wall said 1:15 AM, which meant Sergio had been working for roughly twelve hours. He hadn’t had to do that since last year’s flu epidemic. “Go home, get some sleep, get some food. Come back tomorrow at 9, you’re scheduled for three surgeries.”
“Fuck. Yeah, okay.” Sergio tried to calculate how much sleep that would leave him with, but his eyes were already fluttering shut.
what matters | karim benzema/zinedine zidane, nc-17
So it was a slightly bleary eyed Karim that opened the door to find Zidane holding a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. Karim ran a hand over his head and pulled the door open wider to let the older man in.
heartbeats | fernando torres/sergio ramos, r
In the car, Fernando sat in the back seat and propped his leg up. Sergio was singing along with the radio and the deep, slightly scratchy quality of his voice was as comforting to Fernando as any lullaby had ever been.
letters from sevilla | sergio ramos/fernando torres, au, pg
At first, Fernando wasn't sure why he wrote back. Later, reading the letters again and again, he was pretty sure he could figure it out.
collide (you and i) | sergio ramos/fernando torres, pg
Sergio twirls the straw in his drink and looks out over the shoreline; he’d resisted going to the beach in San Sebastian (he wants to save that for Cadiz) but had given in when Fernando suggested the small outdoor café. He pushes sweaty strands of hair off of his face and grins at Fernando, who has his glass pressed to his cheek, desperately seeking the cool condensation.
“I’ve never been away from Madrid in the summer,” Fernando offers quietly.
going home is not the same as coming back | gen, sergio ramos-centric, pg
The early exist doesn’t disappoint you as much as it does the others. It is your first World Cup; you are still in the happy honeymoon phase, too blissful to be hurt by much. You do cry, though, and at first you think it’s just for posterity, because you are happy just to have played, but somewhere between swapping shirts and showering, the tears become real.
bearing up | gen, sergio centric, pg
“How did you survive this?” he miserably asks Ruud one day, at the beginning of training. There’s an actual, physical ache in Sergio’s gut as he watches his teammates spill out on to the field as he himself trudges up to the gym.
“One day at a time,” Ruud answers, patting his shoulder before joining the team.
he knew all the dreams by heart (night dreamer) | iker casillas/sergio ramos, guti/raul, pg
What Sergio did best was dance in sunlit, dusty streets, hands clapping in time with hips, drawing everyone around him into his world, of beauty and old love and the slap of guitar strings against wood. What Sergio did best was let the music pull through him, take control. Sergio was good at letting go, letting the beat and rhythm guide his movement.
restless | sergio ramos/iker casillas, sergio ramos/fernando torres, implied iker casillas/david beckham
sick | sergio ramos/fernando torres, pg
Sergio was curled up on his couch, surrounded by crumpled up tissues. There was a mug of tea somewhere, and a well worn, baby blue blanket was draped over his lanky body. His white t-shirt was riding up on his back, exposing a strip of caramel, feverish, tattooed skin. His cheek was pressed into the phone and his whole body seemed to be curved around it, caressing it.
home | sergio ramos/fernando torres, r
“Now? Fer, it’s late, you have to get up early. Are you sure?” There was no fight in Sergio’s voice, and Fernando’s heart absolutely ached for the Sevillan’s earnestness. Sergio would be only thinking of Fernando, of how Fernando had to get up early for his flight to motherfucking England, and not of what he wanted. It only made Fernando feel worse for not seeking him out earlier.
limbo | sergio ramos/fernando torres, pg
The sun was a little waterier here, and it made Sergio feel unstable, as if anything could happen. He felt like watercolors, instead of oil paints, more fluid, less permanent. Washable, usable. Expendable. Transparent. He took greatest care to arrange his face before leaving the room he shared with Iker, not wanting to broadcast what he was feeling, even though no mask in the world could hide.
home | sergio ramos/fernando torres, pg-13
“Call me when you get home?” Fernando asked, as Sergio shouldered his bag and made to move for his gate.
“Of course, Nino,” Sergio replied, flashing Fernando the ghost of a smile. “I expect you to call me, too, you know.”
“Even though I’m not going home.”
“Even though you’re not going home,” Sergio confirmed, closing the distance between them one last time and enveloping Fernando in a hug. “Call me all the time. Call me every day. Pretend you’re home. There’s always room for you at home.”
tired | fernando torres/sergio ramos, pg
Silence. Fernando’s silence. Because it was his fault. (Always his fault). Knew he was the one to leave. Knew he was the one who had to come back. Knowing what he’d thrown away. (Stupid, selfish mistakes.)
after | sergio ramos/fernando torres, r
Sergio reaches up and grips the striker’s wrist, begging silently. And, for once, Fernando acquiesces, tucks himself into bed next to Sergio instead of pulling his pants back on.
on a whim | fernando torres/sergio ramos, pg
here was a brief moment of confusion when Sergio's English proved to be too accented and broken for the cab driver to understand, but it provided a distraction, and for that, Sergio was grateful.
don quixote | sergio ramos/fernando torres, pg
Fernando’s fingers are long and cool against Sergio’s cheek, and he swallows back bile, not understanding entirely why Fernando’s leaving, glancing back down to the battered copy of Don Quixote and absolutely refuses to think of himself as Sancho Panza, because Fernando is no Don Quixote.
niño | sergio ramos/fernando torres, pg
“Mmfg,” he says into the receiver, distantly aware that he isn’t coming up with real words.
el amor se leescapa antes de ser capturado | sergio ramos/fernando torres, pg
That’s what Sergio does now, he exists, as peacefully as he can. Still listens to flamenco for hours on end in the sun, but he’s never let his fingers dance in quite the same way over anyone else’s skin. That way of being alive is gone, locked away in the part of his heart that Sergio never dares to go, the part he shut off that night.
understanding | sergio ramos/fernando torres, pg
“I miss the sun,” Fernando said, finally dragging his eyes up to meet Sergio’s, finally. The Sevillan was staring at him as intently as Fernando remembered he could, and Fernando abruptly felt like crying.
guilt | sergio ramos/fernando torres, r
Dios te salve, María. Llena eres de gracia: El Señor es contigo. Bendita tú eres entre todas las mujeres. Y bendito es el fruto de tu vientre: Jesús. Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros pecadores, ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte. Amen.
appropriate | sergio ramos/fernando torres, pg
Sergio’s heart ached as he looked at Fernando’s fingers covering his, and he relented. “For you,” he said quietly, putting Fernando beyond the anger, out of its reach.