WIP: Gitano [1/?]

[werepope]

Title: N/A Part 1/?
Rating: R
Pairing: Fernando Torres/Sergio Ramos
Word Count: 6,636
Summary: They are teenagers. They do stupid things, but they do them together.
Notes: Massively epic and without beta. Be kind.


Sergio doesn't fit in. His hair is too long. He wears jewelry. He has a tattoo. He doesn't even wear trainers. He is probably a gypsy and more than likely a fag. But he stands out mostly because he doesn't try not to.

His English is bad and not improving. He gets through most situations with grunts that don't belong in any language. "Yes," "no," and "I don't understand a word you just said" are replied to in precisely the same way: a noise from deep in his throat that that is without consonants or intonation.

He's not at all the kind of person Fernando wants to be friends with. It's unfortunate that they have the basics in common. They are both Spanish, they are in the same year, and they live in the same neighborhood. Worse that Sergio's father meets Fernando's, that the two of them have decided to become friends. Tragic that they want their sons to get along too.

"He doesn't have any friends."

Fernando sighs and throws himself back onto his bed. It's strange, the way his parents use his own arguments against him. Like they don't even see how not having any friends means the kid is obviously deranged. Certainly not the kind of guy Fernando can be hang out with, because unlike the gypsy, he's got friends. A lot of them. And they know how it really is, even if his parents don't.

"He's weird."

Flori is undeterred. "He isn't weird. He's just new."

"He's completely weird! Have you seen him? He's got this--" Fernando pushes his mouth up into a look of contempt. "This hair. It's so gay."

His mother's face gets tight like she's about to yell at him. It's an expression he's getting more and more familiar with, but he's used to seeing it when he's failed a test or stayed out too late or that time she found the titty magazine in his room. This situation definitely doesn't warrant that look, in comparison.

"Fernando José Torres Sanz."

He winces. He can just see the accent over that E in her voice. She's about to launch into Spanish. This is obviously more serious than he thought.

"When we came to this country," she starts, and already there is something in her voice edging away from anger and into tears. He wants to shoot himself. "You didn't have any friends. You would come home from school and cry so hard because you were so lonely. It killed me, Fernando, because there was nothing I could do to help you. What was I supposed to do? You tell me. Please. As a mother, what could I do to help you make friends at school?"

"I was six!"

"Nothing, that's what! I held you and told you that it would be alright if you gave it time. I told you that your English would get better. I told you to be nice always, because that's what makes friends. Didn't I? Do you remember, Fernando?"

He bangs his heels against the mattress and pulls a pillow over his face just so he can scream at full volume. "I WAS SIX!"

"Well now there is another boy! He doesn't have any friends because he doesn't speak English! You should be ashamed of yourself for not being nicer to him! I did not raise you to be this way!"

He doesn't respond because he is focusing on just breathing. It's sort of hard, with a pillow shoved down over his face. But he absolutely will not move it and look at her. He'll see that look on her face, and he'll feel bad. It'll be a downward spiral from there. It always is.

"Do you hear me, Fer?"

He sort of moans out a response. Of course he can hear her. Her voice goes all high-pitched and the neighborhood dogs start barking when she gets on these rants.

"I asked you a question, young man."

He got her temper. That ability to be absolutely furious and yell and make dogs bark is in him, too. So he keeps the pillow on his face just so this doesn't go on longer than it has to. "I heard you."

"What are you going to do about it?"

It's stupid, the way he wants to throw a tantrum. And it's stupid that she doesn't get it. And it's stupid that there's nothing he can do about it.

"I'll talk to him."

There's the thud of something hitting the mattress that comes up to him more as vibration than sound. That, at least, makes him peek from beneath his fluffy barrier.

"You'll call him."

"Tonight!?"

"Now."

She smiles before she shuts his door, and he knows for certain the injustice of the situation is completely lost on her. He knows she's still standing in the hallway, too, waiting to hear his phone voice.

His stomach gets all knotted up, thinking about having to call someone he's never spoken to before. He's going to have to make conversation. He's going to have to play nice and not tell Sergio that he's a freak. He's going to have to fake it.

"Hola," he says down at the phone. "May I speak to Sergio, please?" And then he switches to Spanish, because it's believable. "Hey, Sergio. It's Nando. We're in the same year at school. We've got history together. Oh, you know who I am? You stare at me all the time because you're really creepy?"

He just can't help himself. Even pretending, this is the most ridiculous thing he's ever done.

Flori is in the room so fast the door knocks against the wall. She actually looks sort of scared until she sees the phone on the mattress. Then she just looks a whole new kind of angry.

Fernando scrambles to pick up the phone, nearly falls off the side of the bed when he drops it. "I'm calling, I'm calling!"

It was the most awkward conversation he ever had. There was a lot of silence and for some reason Fernando couldn't stop clearing his throat. He tried talking to him about football. Then television. And then school, as a last resort.

It was weird, the way Sergio didn't sound nervous or surprised. His parents probably told him Fernando was going to call. He had lots of time to practice sounding arrogant and unaffected by the fact that the most popular guy in the whole school was phoning him just to chat. It's the only thing that saves Fernando's ego.

But it worries him all the next day, their little talk. He can't stop thinking about what he'll do if Sergio comes up to him and tries to act like they're friends. And he never gets the chance to do anything.

Sergio walks by him in the hall on the way to third period without so much as a glance. He sits right behind him in history and never says a word. He eats lunch two tables down like he doesn't even want to join in Fernando's group. And it makes Fernando feel crazy, like he has to show Sergio who he is.

He calls him that night, after dinner. He doesn't bother asking to speak to him in English. Doesn't pretend like they have anything in common.

"You know who I am, right?"

He can hear some kind of crazy guitar music in the background, even though last night Sergio told him he didn't like music. And he can hear him give a huff of breath like his time is being wasted.

"Fernando. Yeah."

"Right, but who I really am. We have history together. I sit--"

"I know."

He doesn't know what to do except make little indignant noises that finally turn into words. "You didn't say 'hi' to me at school."

"Was I supposed to?"

Fernando stands up because he's feeling emphatic. "I'm popular."

For some reason Sergio starts laughing then.

"I am! I am one of the most popular kids in our year."

"So?"

Fernando hangs up on him because Sergio obviously doesn't get it, or because he feels really stupid.

When the phone rings, he picks it up on instinct. "Hello?"

"You wanted me to say something to you today? Or are you just disappointed because you couldn't tell your friends that I've got a crush on you?"

Fernando hangs up on him again because he's pretty sure Sergio knows the answer.

They see each other in the hall and Sergio doesn't look at him. They don't say anything during history class. They don't sit together at lunch. It goes on so long Fernando forgets to feel embarrassed. He doesn't even care anymore, when Sergio doesn't notice him. He doesn't care when his friends ask him what the words are for "gypsy" and "fag." And he doesn't feel bad when he sees them written on Sergio's locker, even though he gets called into the office about it.

The headmaster is angry at first, because he's suspicious. Fernando is a likely suspect, since he would know the slang. He's too smart for it, though. He gets really dismissive and says that there are places on the internet where you can learn Spanish. And even though the headmaster knows it's partially his fault, he's let go without a note to his parents.

He comes home late and his mother is on the phone. She looks sad and pissed off at the same time, which means he's in trouble. She ends the conversation quickly, which is worse. He pushes his fingers into his ears, trying to brace himself.

"Sergio's getting bullied at school." Her voice is so normal Fernando almost doesn't hear her. "Someone wrote slurs on his locker."

"Yeah," he says. He can't make himself sound as casual. "I saw."

"Do you know who?"

Fernando shrugs. "Not really." It's not a lie, exactly. It could have been a lot of people.

"Paqui is worried."

"Who's that? His mom?"

Flori nods slowly, just so he knows she's not fooled. That's the problem with moms. They know what you've done wrong, but they want you to confess.

"Yeah, well, it's not like they're beating him up." It's stupid, but it's the truest thing he's said to her so far.

"Fernando." Her voice comes out even softer, loaded with disappointment. "You know this is wrong. That boy is all alone. He is sixteen years old, he just moved to a new country, he doesn't speak the language, and all I asked you to do was be nice to him."

"He doesn't want me to be nice. He likes being a freak."

"And you like telling your friends what names to call him."

He takes a deep breath. He tries to explain. She doesn't even let him open his mouth.

"I love you, Fernando, but you're being a real shit. Do you know that?"

Standing in the kitchen, watching his mother be so angry that she can't even raise her voice, and he finally feels bad.

"Yeah. I know."

Sergio's family is nice. His mother is all smiles and eager to drop kisses of greetings onto his cheeks, even though she probably knows it's his fault Sergio's getting teased in his own language at school. His father isn't as welcoming, but Fernando can't blame him. Probably he's just happy to have people in the house that he can speak to without searching for the right words in English. That their son is a delinquent isn't as important.

The food is good too. Dinner is awkward, with everyone sitting around the table trying to get him and Sergio to talk, forcing themselves into conversations they don't care about just to spark some interest. But Fernando focuses on the meal and only speaks when he has to, practically monosyllabic, coming off as a complete idiot. It works, though, straight through to the coffee, when Paqui suggests they go have fun. Just like that. Hopeful and sort of desperate, like trying to keep a wailing baby quiet.

Sergio's room is small, sparse except for the boxes stacked up in a corner. The pile is so high that it feels ominous, like it's going to topple or come to life. Apart from that there's a stereo and a television, a bed that's made clumsily, like the person who did it isn't sure of the motions. His mom probably made him clean up just for the occasion.

Fernando has to admit that he expected it to be different. There are curtains up, but they're pulled tight over the window, more utilitarian than decorative. The walls are even bare, which seems in direct contrast to Sergio himself. Out of his school uniform, he definitely doesn't seem like the type to enjoy blank walls. He's all decked out in some ridiculous get up with stripes and belts and a t-shirt that's cut into such a deep V Fernando can see the bones of his chest. But he looks like himself, even if Fernando isn't sure who that is.

They hover in Sergio's room because the bed is the only place to sit. They're quiet because, with just the faint chatter of their parents all the way downstairs, the silence feels expectant. Fernando cracks all of his fingers, in order, just to have something to do other than stare at his feet.

"So, uh." He looks around, searching for something to talk about. Not surprisingly, Sergio is the only thing in the room that is even vaguely interesting. "Nice shirt."

Sergio doesn't glance down at himself, like a normal person. He just stares straight at Fernando and raises an eyebrow.

This is worse than he imagined.

"Where'd you get it?"

"Sevilla."

"Right." Fernando takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, loudly. "You're from Sevilla. That's... I've never been, actually. Heard nice things about it, though."

"Where?"

"Where what?"

"Where did you hear about it?"

"Well, you know. Uh, your-- Your parents said it was really, you know, a nice place." He clears his throat because he can't stand the way Sergio just looks at him in response, completely unimpressed by the effort. This is some new circle of hell, being stared at by a fag wearing beads in his hair like a bad pirate impersonator.

"Yeah." Sergio drops himself down onto his bed finally, and Fernando moves across the small floor, being intrusive but only because he doesn't have anything better to do.

There's a big pile of CDs dumped into a box, and flimsy paperback books tucked here and there, wherever they will fit. A laptop half-hidden under his backpack, a cell phone that looks like it's been dropped on every street in Spain. And a pair of boots tossed under the edge of the bed. Proper boots. Football boots. It actually makes Fernando stop and swivel his gaze up at Sergio.

"You play," he asks, and Sergio must have been watching because he doesn't have to ask what he's referring to, just nods.

Fernando sticks his foot out and toes the boots, knocking one down onto the blades. They're the expensive kind, Nike, bright blue except where they've been scuffed up from use. Not the sort of cleats you buy for kicking around a ball with friends.

"School team?"

Sergio shrugs then, so maybe not. Probably some under eighteen league. And it's impressive, even though Fernando made the decision not to like him at all.

He pushes his foot further under the bed to knock them out of his view and his shoe hits unmistakably on a football. He taps it out from under the bed, following it along the mattress until it emerges and rolls toward the door. If he were in his own house he would kick it against the baseboard just hard enough that it knocks up to get his hands under. But this isn't his house, and he's doubt Sergio's parents would appreciate him abusing their woodwork. He drops his foot instead, so that his toes snap from the ball to the floor and it leaps straight up. Just to prove that he can, he catches it on the laces of his sneakers.

Sergio claps, slow and sarcastic, but when Fernando looks up he is smiling. He returns it because it feels sort of like a victory.

"You wanna," he says more than asks, knocking the ball up onto his knee and then toward the bed. Sergio hits it, just with the tip of his stupid pointy shoes and it spins back toward Fernando.

"It's dark."

Fernando shrugs, hitting the ball from foot to foot, just glad to have something to do. "You don't have lights?"

"I dunno," Sergio replies, watching him juggle the ball in a tight circle. "Probably." But it comes out as an invitation to go see, instead of a guess.

Fernando knows that, on some level, he's caving. He's doing just what their parents want. But it's not like it will kill him. Right? Not just to fill one boring evening.

They get outside under the radar, after Sergio tests every light switch in the kitchen. Fernando almost cheers when floodlights kick on, but instead just inspects the ground for loose paving stones. They obviously haven't done anything out here yet, except buy some flower pots and soil, both of which sit just outside the door. Fernando's got plenty of time to notice this stuff. Sergio doesn't come out immediately, probably inside still flipping switching.

He emerges, finally, while Fernando is scuffing his feet through the weeds, stirring up crickets.

"Here," he says, and offers Fernando a bottle of beer. Which explains, at least, where he dawdled off to. But it's hard to believe his parents let him get away with this, even if it is legal in Spain. It's harder to believe the way Sergio knocks the lid off with just his thumb.

"Cheers," Sergio says, in English, after Fernando fumbles to get his own bottle open. It's something pale and bitter, not at all the kind of beer Fernando is used to. But he isn't about to be showed up. He drains half of it before he sets it down.

"How is that the only word you know?"

Sergio shrugs, quiet while he kicks the ball up toward himself and then knocks it against his chest, toward Fernando. "It isn't."

"What else do you know?" He's mostly asking just to occupy his mouth, but also because he's interested. He can't imagine Sergio trying to actually learn the language. He comes off way too impervious for that. Probably it's just stuff he's picked up from movies.

"Fuck," Sergio says, unwittingly proving Fernando right. "Football. I love you." Deadpan, reading from a mental list, and with the consonants softened so that the words sort of fall off of his tongue instead of being formed by it.

Fernando chuckles and sends the ball skidding toward the side of the house, almost into the glass door except for Sergio's foot. "I guess that's all you need."

"So far." He moves back, toward the far side of the garden where the light doesn't quite hit. And then, all of a sudden, his voice is a mild warning--"Head's up."--because the ball bullets straight at Fernando's face. He drops to the ground out of instinct and the ball sails past him, smacking on the side of the house hard enough to send it back toward Sergio.

"Nice," Fernando says, and his voice is almost a growl as he scrapes himself up off of the ground.

"I'll be gentle," comes the reply, and this time the ball slips right up over his shoes and against his shins. But he wasn't lying. It doesn't hurt more than any other pass.

Fernando settles the ball between his feet on the flagstones. "You don't think this gives you an unfair advantage?"

"No. If you get the ball to me, you've accomplished something. If I get it to you, it only means I can see."

Sergio steps back further, and he's lost completely in the darkness. It makes the game sort of bizarre, more like echo location than just passing. Fernando has to listen for the sound of Sergio's shoes and guess, at first. He gets catcalls for every shot that doesn't land right at Sergio's feet. For the first few minutes, it's more about what smartass thing Sergio will call him. But then the shots must get more accurate, because the ball comes back at him with just the thomp of his foot impacting from different angles.

"Where did you play," Fernando asks finally, catching the ball on the arch of his foot and not sending it back. When Sergio's voice comes out at him, it sounds almost foreign. They've been at this for longer than he thought.

"Camas."

Fernando sails the ball high, toward his voice, and for the first time all night Sergio misses. In retaliation he starts aiming for Fernando as a whole, instead of just his feet, and the game is interesting again.

They don't stop until Fernando's father emerges from the house, telling him it's time to go. Sergio unearths himself from the dark half of the garden, not looking any different than when he disappeared, but Fernando likes him more this time. Something about the way the ball came at him like Sergio meant it, or that the sound of his shoes is stupidly familiar now. It forces his hand out as goodbye. And when Sergio shakes it, his first thought isn't "fag." And it's a start, at least.

Fernando calls him on Saturday because he figures Sergio won't have anything better to do. All of his friends are busy with family and girlfriends and being grounded. It leaves a gap in his weekend that feels impossible to fill. And Fernando doesn't really expect him to, but Sergio agrees to meet him in the park after he gets directions and a reminder to bring boots.

The rain hits before either of them arrive, so that when they finally find each other, the ground and Sergio are drenched. Fernando is spared because he had the sense to look out the window and notice the rolling clouds, or because he knew that even a hint of grey could turn into a downpour. Sergio hasn't learned yet to always expect rain.

Fernando wants to tell him to buck up and put his boots on, but instead they run across the slick grass and toward the park's aviary, crowding themselves in under a narrow overhang. Sergio presses his face against the glass, hands cupped to try and see through the fog.

"What is this thing?"

Fernando mirrors him as he tries to find the word. "It's, uh..." He jerks his thumb around the corner of the building, toward the entryway blocked off by cones and construction tape. "For birds, you know?"

Sergio leans forward, into the rain, staring past him and then suddenly snug up against him as he follows the narrow stripe of dry ground. Fernando stands, stunned and wearing wet fingerprints against his hips where Sergio moved him aside. It takes a moment before he finds his feet, practically scampering to follow.

Sergio slips himself beneath the barrier and into the dingy entryway. He doesn't look up when Fernando joins him, just snugs himself against the doors, hands down to fit his weight against the handles.

"What are you doing," Fernando asks, not so much scandalized as interested. He leans forward, craning around Sergio's shoulder. Whatever he is doing, it's beyond him. There's a moment of worry that Sergio is trying to get off on the polished brass, and then suddenly there's the mechanical sound of a bolt slipping or a spring popping, and Sergio is pushing back against Fernando to swing the doors open.

"What are you doing!?" He's definitely scandalized now, his voice going into a hiss, and on instinct he looks around to make sure no one is watching.

Sergio levels him with an unimpressed stare. "What's it look like?"

"It looks like--" Fernando sputters. "Fucking breaking and entering."

"Good guess," comes the response, and Sergio is giving him the same look he did last Friday right before he sank into the shadows. Not sneaky, exactly. More like daring Fernando into following. And he does, because he knows that if he doesn't there will be another round of catcalls. Or Sergio will just go on without him. He's not sure what would hurt his ego more.

Inside, his first thought isn't about getting caught or how stupid it is to be here at all. Instead he wonders where the birds are. It makes him seem like a liar that there isn't even a single pigeon getting under their feet. Sergio doesn't seem to mind, though. He's wandering out toward the center of the building, eyes up despite the uneven ground, to stare through the copula thirty feet over him. Fernando is more cautious. He steps carefully over broken chunks of pavement and the scattering of equipment left for the weekend. By the time he actually manages to get to Sergio, he's nearly fallen three times. That Sergio made it without a downward glance is near impossible. Some kind of gypsy magic.

"So," he tries, eyes sweeping the torn interior. From here it looks more like a war zone than a construction site. "No birds left."

Sergio makes some small noise of agreement and points straight up. The rain is coming down harder, falling over the glass tiers of the ceiling. The impression is of being in a bubble or a champagne fountain. That there is dust in the air and Sergio smells strongly of grass does nothing to make this more earthly.

Fernando knocks his fingers against one of the boots hanging across Sergio's shoulder. "We should go," he says, though only because he's aware of how alone they are.

Sergio just grunts, his eyes still trained skyward. He's strange looking, Fernando thinks. Interesting more than handsome, with features that are all too strong. His nose is long and sort of hooked, aquiline, though that's only a word Fernando has ever read and never associated with anything before. His eyes are sort of close together and set too high. His forehead is squat. Fernando can't even look at his mouth. Instead he grabs onto the sleeve of Sergio's sopping shirt and pulls him back toward the entrance.

Fernando waits while Sergio secures the doors. The rain hasn't let up, and even though it might at any moment, chances are that the city will be showered well into the night. So Fernando jerks his thumb toward the street a dozen meters away.

"I'm this way, if you wanna."

Sergio stops combing his fingers through his hair to raise an eyebrow. "You're what way? Cold and soggy?"

"Ha ha." Fernando stuffs his hands deep into the pocket of his hoodie. "That was an offer."

"Not a very good one." But Sergio follows him back out into the rain regardless.

Sitting on the living room floor, they argue over movies. Sergio is dressed in a pair of scavenged pajama pants and t-shirt, a damp towel across his shoulders to stop water dripping down his back. And despite looking like a drowned cat, he holds firmly onto his refusal to watch Transformers.

"I don't like robots," he says, pulling movies half-way off of the shelf to see their covers because most of the titles don't mean anything to him.

Fernando balks, brandishing the DVD at him. "They're not robots," he insists. "They're Autobots. It's more like being an alien than a robot."

There's a moment of silence where Sergio's stare is something between amused and stunned. He isn't sure who has been put into a more compromising situation, himself for admitting to a stupid fear, or Fernando for demonstrating what a dork he is. They drop the subject without any further discussion.

Instead they settle onto the couch and flip channels until a Premiership highlights program comes on. It takes less than a minute for them to realize this is a deadlock too. Fernando thinks English football is the best kind. He waxes poetic about pace and passing, the lack of diving, and the especially exceptional Liverpool FC. When he gets to the glory of Stevie G., Sergio hits him with a throw pillow.

They raid the kitchen for food and make do with leftover lo mein noodles. They ignore the television to argue, alternating between vehemence and laughter. Cristiano Ronaldo, Sergio insists, is the only decent player in the Premiership. Fernando returns the favor of the pillow then, hitting him hard enough to send the cardboard carton in his hand tumbling. They clean up instead of finishing, because the food isn't very good anyway.

"Having fun yet," Fernando asks, dumping chopsticks and containers into the trash.

Sergio pulls a beer out of the fridge and Fernando doesn't stop him. He doesn't refuse the bottle Sergio hands him, either. And he pays attention to the way Sergio opens his this time, the way he jams his thumbnail under the glass rib. He smirks without realizing.

"Better than sitting in my room."

Fernando nods and motions up, vaguely, with his bottle. "I've got a Playstation in mine."

"Invitation or gloating?"

"Depends, I guess. Do you have one?"

"No."

"Then gloating." Fernando smiles. "Come on. Sevilla versus Liverpool."

Sergio lifts his beer in agreement and they scale the stairs together. Fernando's bedroom is tidy in a way that means he actually picks up after himself. His desk is uncluttered, the bed made neatly. His bookshelf is alphabetized. There aren't even any dirty clothes or stray bundles of socks. The only bit of chaos is a cork board, tacked with reminders and newspaper clippings, a photograph of Steven Gerrard ripped from a magazine.

They sit on the floor together, backs against the bed while Fernando gets them through the English menus. It takes Sergio a few minutes to get used to the controls, during which time Fernando manages to score a goal. But then Sergio figures out the right combination of buttons to steal the ball cleanly and his players make some impressive runs. By the time the match is over they are both yelling bloody murder and knocking their shoulders together hoping to cause a mistake.

After the game Sergio changes back into his own clothes, warm from the dryer. He offers to take the pajamas home with him, wash and return them, but Fernando tells him not to bother, just dumps them in his hamper. Instead he offers Sergio an umbrella and they say goodbye at the door. Sergio kisses his cheeks and Fernando spends some time alone later, trying to convince himself it's just because he's Spanish.

It's just the boring days at first. Fernando calls the Ramos house when he has nothing better to occupy his time, offering football games or a jogging partner. More often than not they end up at Sergio's house though, away from the outside world. And eventually Fernando finds himself shrugging off invitations from other people, because for some reason he has more fun with Sergio. By the time the fall semester is over they are best friends.

Fernando stares up at the ceiling of Sergio's room and drums his fingers against his stomach. Sergio is somewhere on the floor, pillow propped up under his head, fingering his way through a book. It's ridiculous, Fernando thinks, that he has chosen this over an offer to go out to lunch with his school friends. That he habitually chooses this, even though the hours aren't very exciting. If he were at the chip shop he would be laughing his ass off and talking about girls and plans for the winter break. But here he is, laying on Sergio's bed, staring up at a boring white ceiling.

He rolls over onto this side and looks down at Sergio. They've been silent for the better part of an hour, the room filled with just the sound of a flamenco cd playing on repeat. And even though they do this a lot, it bothers him today. He speaks just because he's aware of the strangeness of their ability to exist alone together comfortably.

"What's with that shirt?"

Sergio doesn't react until he's reached the end of the page. He tips his head back and meets Fernando's gaze. "What's wrong with this shirt?"

"It's kinda gay."

Sergio sets his book down then and plucks at the thin material stretched across his chest. "So?"

"So don't you care at all that you dress like a queer?"

Sergio rolls his eyes. "I don't."

"You do." Fernando sits up, folding his legs beneath himself on the bed. "You look like... a colorblind carnie."

"Why do you care?"

"If you dressed like a normal person, people wouldn't think you're such a freak," he says, somewhere between contempt and concern.

"Yeah, and if wishes were horses even beggars would ride."

Fernando sighs exasperation, smacking his hands against the mattress. "Like that. Who says that?"

"I thought we were talking about my clothes."

"We are."

"No." Sergio picks up his book again, opens it to the right page instinctively. "You're complaining about how I'm an all-around weirdo now."

"I'm not complaining. I just don't understand."

"Why do you have to?"

"Because it's weird!"

"So just think of it as one of the mysteries of the universe and get the fuck over it already. I dress like this because this is the way I want to dress. I don't care if anyone thinks I look like a freak or a faggot or the village idiot. Least of all you."

"Yeah, god forbid you care what I think. That makes so much sense."

"Fuck you, Fer." Sergio's voice is tight with exasperation. "Of course I don't care what you think. Not about this. If it was such a big deal you would have said something sooner. And if you care about it that much you're a complete asshole. So just drop it already."

"I'm an asshole now?"

"Evidently." Sergio turns over onto his side just enough to throw the book at him. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Fernando swats away the paperback with enough force to send it fluttering over the foot of the bed. "We're talking about what the hell is wrong with you."

"Nothing is wrong with me. You're the one who's concerned all of a sudden about the way I dress. That's more faggy than anything I wear."

"It's not faggy. If your entire fucking closet wasn't full of clown clothes maybe we could be seen together in public."

Sergio's face tightens, and for the first time Fernando sees his lips pursed thin. "Do you really want to lay in my bed and talk about closets?"

Fernando doesn't even have the sense to pretend that it doesn't bother him. He immediately climbs up off of the mattress, retreats toward the door when he sees Sergio get to his knees, because he's standing over him, because it makes his face go red.

"I'm not gay," he demands, though it comes out weak, almost like pleading. That bothers him more than the uncomfortable thoughts curling up in his gut. He forces his voice hard. "Fuck this."

Sergio watches him leave, listens to him tromp down the stairs and out the front door. He waits a while longer, until the house is completely still again, then he picks his book up off of the floor and throws it at the empty space Fernando left behind.

They've never spoken to each other at school. Never even given the indication of wanting to. It's harder for Fernando. He finds a hundred things he wants to tell Sergio during the day, things that no one else will appreciate. He writes them down on scraps of paper and shoves them into his pockets so he can bring them up later, though somehow he has never found the nerve to mention even one. It's a barrier he isn't comfortable getting near, for fear of Sergio finally asking why they are not friends when there is an audience. And even if it hadn't been easy to just ignore each other during school hours, it's harder after their fight. Fernando finds himself physically avoiding Sergio all of a sudden, because he is sure that someone will catch shame on his face if he lays eyes on him.

They don't speak for two weeks. Fernando tries to act like it isn't abnormal. He hangs out with his old friends again. He pretends not to flinch every time the phone rings. He strains a few times over English instead of Spanish. But finally he misses Sergio too much not to put aside his ego.

Sergio picks up on the third ring. It takes a few tries before Fernando can find his voice.

"I was thinking we could go to the park," he says, "and see how the aviary is coming along?"

Sergio pauses a beat. "I can't, actually. I'm packing."

"Packing?" Fernando thinks of the boxes stacked in the corner of Sergio's room, never unpacked, and feels his stomach drop. "You're going back to Spain?"

"Back home, yeah."

That he sounds casual is worse than the wording. Fernando almost stutters his response. "Oh. Like... To Sevilla?"

"Yeah."

"When?"

"Tomorrow."

Fernando actually balks then. He feels six years old again, being told that they are moving to England, that they can't take the dog, that he won't see another Atletico Madrid game live. But this is worse, somehow.

"Why," he asks finally, and even to his own ears his voice sounds strained.

There is a strange pause on the other end of the line and Fernando recognizes the sound of Sergio's bed creaking. This is so much worse.

"Are you okay, Fer?"

"Why didn't you tell me? Or--" He takes a breath that rattles hollow in his throat. "I don't know. Didn't you think I would care at all?"

"Fer." Sergio's voice is foreign over the phone, soft and far away, lined with concern. "It's just a holiday."

All at once Fernando feels relief and embarrassment. It's enough to make him want to puke.

"Holiday."

"You thought I was moving?" Sergio isn't laughing even though he should be. He sounds somber instead, too kind.

"Well, we fought and--"

Sergio doesn't let him finish. "I don't care about that."

It leaves Fernando guilty and stupid even through the telephone. "How long are you going to be gone?"

"I get back a week before the new session starts."

"I guess I'll see you then."

"You could come over, if you want. Help me pack clothes that aren't too gay?"

Fernando smiles even though he probably shouldn't. "Now?"

"If you want."

"I'll be right over."

Continued in part two.

Inspiration for Sergio's wardrobe comes from the lovely Eugene Hütz. Photos: one. two. three. four.