better late than never
liverpool :[
in consolation i come bearing a snippet of fic. (if anyone wants to beta this monster, once i actually write more, message! i'm so unsure about certain aspects of it. but i like this part :] ) bonus points to anyone who catches the parzival reference
The sun is bright hot, yellow hot. The dirt of the stadium glitters with it, sending glints of gold into the stands. Standing in the tunnel, Fernando can see the half-full stands, sun glaring off of the barriers. He closes his eyes and feels the heat on his face, sending sprays of freckles across his cheeks. He is used to the bright, yellow hot; used to the sweat sluicing down the groove in his back under the heavy material of the tradition uniform he wears.
Fernando is proud of his uniform, how the gold threads catch the light just as the stadium does, how he glitters along with it. He is proud to wear the suit of lights he once stared at in awe, a little boy watching Raúl perform in the stadiums of Madrid.
“Nervous?”
Sergio’s voice rumbles deep in his chest and shakes Fernando out of his thoughts. Fernando turns to look at the picador, standing with one hand on his hip and the other on his horse’s neck. The brown of Sergio’s hand almost matches the brown of the horse.
“I haven’t been nervous since my first fight,” Fernando says, his voice sure, but his hands twitch at his sides, fisting the heavy fabric and embroidery of his pants, and they both know he’s lying.
But Sergio doesn’t say anything, just strokes the horse’s neck and looks at Fernando with a smile in his eyes. Fernando turns towards the stadium once more and squints in to the sunlight. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees that Sergio isn’t squinting, Sergio, who is like sunshine and who is made for love, his liquid brown eyes still so full of something that it scares Fernando.
Fernando lets the back of his hand brush against Sergio’s knuckles and they stand like that, staring into the bright, yellow heat together and not saying anything, until the trumpet reaches them at the mouth of the tunnel. Sergio hooks Fernando’s pinky in his own and squeezes gently before he gracefully mounts the horse despite the protective padding on the animal’s sides, and Fernando swallows hard.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you,” Sergio says, his voice light but his eyes heavy with promise. Fernando knows he’s talking about the bull, but he also knows it’s true.
“I know,” he says simply. He isn’t sure if Sergio hears him as he rides out of the tunnel, somehow matching the horse’s gait with the beat of the fanfare, but it doesn’t matter. Sergio knows.
Sergio has always known.
in consolation i come bearing a snippet of fic. (if anyone wants to beta this monster, once i actually write more, message! i'm so unsure about certain aspects of it. but i like this part :] ) bonus points to anyone who catches the parzival reference
The sun is bright hot, yellow hot. The dirt of the stadium glitters with it, sending glints of gold into the stands. Standing in the tunnel, Fernando can see the half-full stands, sun glaring off of the barriers. He closes his eyes and feels the heat on his face, sending sprays of freckles across his cheeks. He is used to the bright, yellow hot; used to the sweat sluicing down the groove in his back under the heavy material of the tradition uniform he wears.
Fernando is proud of his uniform, how the gold threads catch the light just as the stadium does, how he glitters along with it. He is proud to wear the suit of lights he once stared at in awe, a little boy watching Raúl perform in the stadiums of Madrid.
“Nervous?”
Sergio’s voice rumbles deep in his chest and shakes Fernando out of his thoughts. Fernando turns to look at the picador, standing with one hand on his hip and the other on his horse’s neck. The brown of Sergio’s hand almost matches the brown of the horse.
“I haven’t been nervous since my first fight,” Fernando says, his voice sure, but his hands twitch at his sides, fisting the heavy fabric and embroidery of his pants, and they both know he’s lying.
But Sergio doesn’t say anything, just strokes the horse’s neck and looks at Fernando with a smile in his eyes. Fernando turns towards the stadium once more and squints in to the sunlight. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees that Sergio isn’t squinting, Sergio, who is like sunshine and who is made for love, his liquid brown eyes still so full of something that it scares Fernando.
Fernando lets the back of his hand brush against Sergio’s knuckles and they stand like that, staring into the bright, yellow heat together and not saying anything, until the trumpet reaches them at the mouth of the tunnel. Sergio hooks Fernando’s pinky in his own and squeezes gently before he gracefully mounts the horse despite the protective padding on the animal’s sides, and Fernando swallows hard.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you,” Sergio says, his voice light but his eyes heavy with promise. Fernando knows he’s talking about the bull, but he also knows it’s true.
“I know,” he says simply. He isn’t sure if Sergio hears him as he rides out of the tunnel, somehow matching the horse’s gait with the beat of the fanfare, but it doesn’t matter. Sergio knows.
Sergio has always known.