appropriate (sergio/fernando, pg)
title: appropriate
pairing: sergio ramos/fernando torres
rating: pg
summary: fernando wants sergio to be his baby's godfather
disclaimer: i lie.
“I want you to be the godfather.”
Sergio blinked, once, twice. Horrible, hurtful words, threatened to spill from his lips, but he kept them inside, choking on them, afraid to let them out because he might start crying. His stillness was scaring Fernando, he knew, but he couldn’t say anything, not yet, not when he couldn’t even think because the hotel room was suffocating him, it was too small, there wasn’t enough air, why couldn’t he breathe properly? Sergio let out the breath he’d been holding in a rush of air, a soft woosh that carried far too much weight. Oh.
“That’s sick,” Sergio told Fernando, eyes steady even as his fingers trembled over his rosary beads, and the words were forced. There was an edge in Sergio’s voice that had never before been directed at Fernando, an edge of hurt, anger, betrayal, aggression, an edge that wasn’t supposed to be there, but he couldn’t keep everything locked inside, not now.
“Why? You’re my best friend. I want you to be part of my child’s life.”
Sergio blinked at Fernando again, trying not to show the heartbreak in his face, but he knew that his lips were tensing, the lines in his forehead were growing pronounced. His chest felt empty and there was a bitter taste in his mouth. Fragments of sentences flitted in and out of his mind, nothing seeming appropriate to say, but what was appropriate? What about this, them, had ever been appropriate? Not, certainly, the stolen, violent kisses in locker rooms or the endless array of hotel rooms with only one bed that had been slept in. Not the secret meetings or veiled glances, not the wandering hands or drunken smiles. Not, perhaps, anything.
“Do you sleep with all your friends, then? Do you go crawling to Gerrard when you need to lose control? Do you stay in Madrid for extra days to go fuck someone else, is that why you never let me drive you to the airport?” There was venom in Sergio’s voice, and he felt a twinge of guilt that was quickly overshadowed by the force of his anger as Fernando recoiled as if he’d been slapped. Sergio took a deep breath and realized his hands were shaking. The not-feeling of a moment ago was preferable to this, this overwhelming anger that was threatening to completely take over, grip at his heart, his lungs, his mind, consume him until he had destroyed everything he loved. He turned his back to Fernando and started roughly shoving his kit into his gym bag.
“No,” he heard Fernando say, quietly, shamed.
“Fer, you can’t ask me to do this. You know it isn’t fair, not to me, not to Olalla,” Sergio said, softer this time, but his voice still shook with anger.
“I want you to be part of its life, Sergio,” Fernando whispered, still pleading, not backing down, and Sergio felt in his bones that he would lose this argument. “You’re important to me.”
“I can’t,” he said, despite himself, sucking in a long breath, still standing stock still. “I can’t do that, I can’t be part of your life with her.”
Fernando took a few steps towards Sergio, and the younger man felt the warmth of Fernando’s palm resting cautiously on his forearm, stilling it. He looked down and saw Fernando’s fingers stroking the blue of the rosary beads and he let out another shaky breath. “Sese, it isn’t about you or me or Olalla. It’s about my kid, and you’re the only person I would ever trust with my child because I love you, I love you so much, I’d give you anything and this child, it’s a part of me, I want to give you a part of me because I love you, I do, so much it hurts, Sese, it hurts.”
Sergio looked at Fernando slowly, deliberately, his eyes tracing the obvious hurt on the other man’s face. Even though Fernando had no right to look at him that way, guilt him into this -but Sergio was Catholic, of course Fernando could guilt him into anything, Sergio knew guilt better than anyone else, it was like a second skin to him, one drenched in Fernando’s sweat- Sergio felt his heart shake to life with something other than the all-consuming anger of minutes ago. “Why can’t you give me all of you, then?” he asked stubbornly, selfishly.
“You know why,” Fernando whispered, his fingers covering Sergio’s on the rosary. “I have to do what is right, for Olalla, for the baby. I have a responsibility for them. I’m not doing this…Not for me, not for love.”
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.
Four months later, his heart hurt as he held the tiny baby girl in his arms, only half listening to the priest. Sergio felt his rosary beads digging into his skin where the girl’s body was pressing against them, but he didn’t move her, choosing instead to relish the feeling. He looked down at the girl, knowing as he did that he would love her as unconditionally as he loved her father; love her as if she was his own daughter. He dragged his gaze up to Fernando, staring at him until he looked up, met his eyes, and then Sergio inclined his head slightly. Fernando blinked at him, once, twice, and a smile twitched at Sergio’s lips.
It was a good thing that what they felt didn’t need to be communicated verbally, because Sergio was pretty sure that declaring his love for the married father of his goddaughter at her baptism would not be appropriate. The charged look he was giving Fernando, the glance which communicated his love, his anger, his unwavering loyalty -to Fernando and now, to this girl, this precious piece of Fernando that was Sergio’s, forever, unbeknownst to her mother- wasn’t appropriate either, but what about them had ever been appropriate? Not this. Not anything.
Sergio dropped his gaze back to the child, and smiled, for real this time, when he saw a light spray of freckles across the girl’s nose.
pairing: sergio ramos/fernando torres
rating: pg
summary: fernando wants sergio to be his baby's godfather
disclaimer: i lie.
“I want you to be the godfather.”
Sergio blinked, once, twice. Horrible, hurtful words, threatened to spill from his lips, but he kept them inside, choking on them, afraid to let them out because he might start crying. His stillness was scaring Fernando, he knew, but he couldn’t say anything, not yet, not when he couldn’t even think because the hotel room was suffocating him, it was too small, there wasn’t enough air, why couldn’t he breathe properly? Sergio let out the breath he’d been holding in a rush of air, a soft woosh that carried far too much weight. Oh.
“That’s sick,” Sergio told Fernando, eyes steady even as his fingers trembled over his rosary beads, and the words were forced. There was an edge in Sergio’s voice that had never before been directed at Fernando, an edge of hurt, anger, betrayal, aggression, an edge that wasn’t supposed to be there, but he couldn’t keep everything locked inside, not now.
“Why? You’re my best friend. I want you to be part of my child’s life.”
Sergio blinked at Fernando again, trying not to show the heartbreak in his face, but he knew that his lips were tensing, the lines in his forehead were growing pronounced. His chest felt empty and there was a bitter taste in his mouth. Fragments of sentences flitted in and out of his mind, nothing seeming appropriate to say, but what was appropriate? What about this, them, had ever been appropriate? Not, certainly, the stolen, violent kisses in locker rooms or the endless array of hotel rooms with only one bed that had been slept in. Not the secret meetings or veiled glances, not the wandering hands or drunken smiles. Not, perhaps, anything.
“Do you sleep with all your friends, then? Do you go crawling to Gerrard when you need to lose control? Do you stay in Madrid for extra days to go fuck someone else, is that why you never let me drive you to the airport?” There was venom in Sergio’s voice, and he felt a twinge of guilt that was quickly overshadowed by the force of his anger as Fernando recoiled as if he’d been slapped. Sergio took a deep breath and realized his hands were shaking. The not-feeling of a moment ago was preferable to this, this overwhelming anger that was threatening to completely take over, grip at his heart, his lungs, his mind, consume him until he had destroyed everything he loved. He turned his back to Fernando and started roughly shoving his kit into his gym bag.
“No,” he heard Fernando say, quietly, shamed.
“Fer, you can’t ask me to do this. You know it isn’t fair, not to me, not to Olalla,” Sergio said, softer this time, but his voice still shook with anger.
“I want you to be part of its life, Sergio,” Fernando whispered, still pleading, not backing down, and Sergio felt in his bones that he would lose this argument. “You’re important to me.”
“I can’t,” he said, despite himself, sucking in a long breath, still standing stock still. “I can’t do that, I can’t be part of your life with her.”
Fernando took a few steps towards Sergio, and the younger man felt the warmth of Fernando’s palm resting cautiously on his forearm, stilling it. He looked down and saw Fernando’s fingers stroking the blue of the rosary beads and he let out another shaky breath. “Sese, it isn’t about you or me or Olalla. It’s about my kid, and you’re the only person I would ever trust with my child because I love you, I love you so much, I’d give you anything and this child, it’s a part of me, I want to give you a part of me because I love you, I do, so much it hurts, Sese, it hurts.”
Sergio looked at Fernando slowly, deliberately, his eyes tracing the obvious hurt on the other man’s face. Even though Fernando had no right to look at him that way, guilt him into this -but Sergio was Catholic, of course Fernando could guilt him into anything, Sergio knew guilt better than anyone else, it was like a second skin to him, one drenched in Fernando’s sweat- Sergio felt his heart shake to life with something other than the all-consuming anger of minutes ago. “Why can’t you give me all of you, then?” he asked stubbornly, selfishly.
“You know why,” Fernando whispered, his fingers covering Sergio’s on the rosary. “I have to do what is right, for Olalla, for the baby. I have a responsibility for them. I’m not doing this…Not for me, not for love.”
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.
Four months later, his heart hurt as he held the tiny baby girl in his arms, only half listening to the priest. Sergio felt his rosary beads digging into his skin where the girl’s body was pressing against them, but he didn’t move her, choosing instead to relish the feeling. He looked down at the girl, knowing as he did that he would love her as unconditionally as he loved her father; love her as if she was his own daughter. He dragged his gaze up to Fernando, staring at him until he looked up, met his eyes, and then Sergio inclined his head slightly. Fernando blinked at him, once, twice, and a smile twitched at Sergio’s lips.
It was a good thing that what they felt didn’t need to be communicated verbally, because Sergio was pretty sure that declaring his love for the married father of his goddaughter at her baptism would not be appropriate. The charged look he was giving Fernando, the glance which communicated his love, his anger, his unwavering loyalty -to Fernando and now, to this girl, this precious piece of Fernando that was Sergio’s, forever, unbeknownst to her mother- wasn’t appropriate either, but what about them had ever been appropriate? Not this. Not anything.
Sergio dropped his gaze back to the child, and smiled, for real this time, when he saw a light spray of freckles across the girl’s nose.