spanish hands
title spanish hands
prompt .096 writers choice- hands
rating g! fluff!
pairing fernando torres/sergio ramos
“Hey, what are you doing?”
Sergio hears Fernando snort and grins into the phone. He flops onto the couch and turns the TV on mute, flipping channels.
“I’m cooking,” Fernando finally answers, and Sergio lets his head fall back against the cushion. He closes his eyes, the TV still on, bathing him in flickering light.
“What are you making?”
“Rosquitos,” Fernando replies, and Sergio pictures his mother, making pastries during the long Sevillan afternoons. He remembers coming home after football to see her hunched over the counter, intent on her work. He runs a hand through his hair and can see his mother’s hands, long, elegant fingers shaping the sweet dough, her rings knocking together when she rubbed flour on her hands. Her Spanish hands, Sergio thinks, and smiles to himself. Of course they are Spanish hands. So are his.
“My mom taught you how to make those,” he tells Fernando, his voice sleepy soft. He hears Fernando chuckle a little and an easy grin stays on his lips.
There’s a moment of rustling, and Sergio can picture Fernando shifting his phone to the shoulder, to free up his hands so they can knead the dough, make them the perfect shape. He pictures Fernando spreading flour on the counter so nothing gets stuck. He remembers so sharply that afternoon at his mother’s house, how he’d watched, bemused, as Paqui molded her tanned, worn hands over Fernando’s freckled, soft ones, and moved them around the dough, kneading and pressing. He remembered eating the rosquitos that evening, baked golden with sugar on top, and his mother had proclaimed that Fernando had Spanish hands.
“Nora’s eating real food now, you know?” Fernando tells him. “I want her to have them, for her first sweet.”
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.
“You have Spanish hands,” he mumbles into the phone, lazy in the late afternoon. “So will she.”
“You think?”
Sergio forces his eyes open just a crack and nods into the phone before he realizes that Fernando isn’t actually there. “Yeah,” he breathes, closing his eyes again. “Yeah, ‘cause she’s yours, you’ll teach her right.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Fernando huffs. Sergio rolls his eyes under his eyelids.
“It’s true, though. You won’t let her forget where she’s from.”
He hears Fernando’s breath catch and he licks his lips.
“Sometimes I think I might forget,” Fernando confesses, his voice quiet and small. Sergio pictures him gripping the counter, knuckles white with the effort, stark against the gold of his wedding band.
“That won’t ever happen,” Sergio tells him, and his voice is full of promises of protection and love. “I won’t let you forget where you’re from.”
prompt .096 writers choice- hands
rating g! fluff!
pairing fernando torres/sergio ramos
“Hey, what are you doing?”
Sergio hears Fernando snort and grins into the phone. He flops onto the couch and turns the TV on mute, flipping channels.
“I’m cooking,” Fernando finally answers, and Sergio lets his head fall back against the cushion. He closes his eyes, the TV still on, bathing him in flickering light.
“What are you making?”
“Rosquitos,” Fernando replies, and Sergio pictures his mother, making pastries during the long Sevillan afternoons. He remembers coming home after football to see her hunched over the counter, intent on her work. He runs a hand through his hair and can see his mother’s hands, long, elegant fingers shaping the sweet dough, her rings knocking together when she rubbed flour on her hands. Her Spanish hands, Sergio thinks, and smiles to himself. Of course they are Spanish hands. So are his.
“My mom taught you how to make those,” he tells Fernando, his voice sleepy soft. He hears Fernando chuckle a little and an easy grin stays on his lips.
There’s a moment of rustling, and Sergio can picture Fernando shifting his phone to the shoulder, to free up his hands so they can knead the dough, make them the perfect shape. He pictures Fernando spreading flour on the counter so nothing gets stuck. He remembers so sharply that afternoon at his mother’s house, how he’d watched, bemused, as Paqui molded her tanned, worn hands over Fernando’s freckled, soft ones, and moved them around the dough, kneading and pressing. He remembered eating the rosquitos that evening, baked golden with sugar on top, and his mother had proclaimed that Fernando had Spanish hands.
“Nora’s eating real food now, you know?” Fernando tells him. “I want her to have them, for her first sweet.”
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.
“You have Spanish hands,” he mumbles into the phone, lazy in the late afternoon. “So will she.”
“You think?”
Sergio forces his eyes open just a crack and nods into the phone before he realizes that Fernando isn’t actually there. “Yeah,” he breathes, closing his eyes again. “Yeah, ‘cause she’s yours, you’ll teach her right.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Fernando huffs. Sergio rolls his eyes under his eyelids.
“It’s true, though. You won’t let her forget where she’s from.”
He hears Fernando’s breath catch and he licks his lips.
“Sometimes I think I might forget,” Fernando confesses, his voice quiet and small. Sergio pictures him gripping the counter, knuckles white with the effort, stark against the gold of his wedding band.
“That won’t ever happen,” Sergio tells him, and his voice is full of promises of protection and love. “I won’t let you forget where you’re from.”