i want someone who will never betray me
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Aug. 20th, 2008 | 08:04 pm
music: "The Rollercoaster Ride" Belle and Sebastian
Disclaimer: all made up
Characters: Fernando Torres, Martin Škrtel, Sergio Ramos, the Liverpool crowd
Rating: PG-13 for this part
Summary: AU. Fernando is obsessive compulsive. Martin doesn’t hold back.
“The important hours are the motionless ones. Those stopped fractions of time, half-dead minutes, are the truest thing about you, the truest you -- not owning them nor being owned by them, without attributes; you couldn't 'render' them, couldn't make them more or less than they are.” -Henri Michaux
Even in his sleep, Ania had the face of wanderlust. Martin uncurled himself from the naked, peaceful body. He couldn't sleep—he was too angry at the world. He fisted the bed sheets, clenching them and unclenching them, upset about the injustices of the world. He had finally taken Ania's advice, though much later. Martin had taken a month off work—a month he really couldn't afford—to "understand the country".
He hopped trains and hitched rides with anyone who had the trustworthy face of someone who lived a simple life. He borrowed bicycles from teenagers who were scared he would never return, but more scared of what he could do to them if they refused. People's hospitality surprised him. During a thunderstorm, a family had taken him in and let him spend the night. Despite planning to slip away unannounced, Martin woke up to find tea and biscuits outside his door. What didn't surprise him was people's brutality. In less glamorous places, workers—blue collar, white collar, it didn't matter—grew either tired or foul by the end of the day. Sometimes, at night in dingy hotel parking lots, he saw smug faced men herd tightlipped women into cars like cattle. The women's smiles seemed to break them. Tourist hot spots in less expensive areas could get ugly, yet familiar. In those places, people moved quickly, spoke smoothly, and never said sorry. Martin was grateful for people's kindness and for warm Russian families, but he felt more comfortable with people who minded their own business.
Every few days, Martin would call Ania by payphone, but their conversations were brief. When Ania answered, Martin never knew what to say. They would end up talking about football, about Zenit and Liverpool, and insulting whatever team of the week had kept Zenit or Liverpool down.
Sometimes Martin got himself in trouble. He let himself get provoked when he shouldn't have, lashing out at sour people with irritating attitudes. "What the fuck is wrong people?" Martin would think. Sometimes Martin spoke to children, which was strange because he thought he hated kids. Children had no pretention. Their ulterior motives involved fishing for compliments, or charming their grandparents into buying them sweets. Girls in cotton dresses looked up at him from beneath wisps of curls and told him plainly, "You're really tall." Boys whooped and hollered when he kicked the soccer ball back to them. Once, in a rougher part of town, he caught dirty children spilling out of a shack, their nimble feet taking them quickly into the night darkness where they vanished. As he smoked a cigarette under a tree, he stared hard into that spot of darkness, long after they disappeared. He remembered watching a story once about homeless kids sniffing glue in shacks, or something like that. Martin stared and stared until he grew too sleepy to wait for their return.
Life was wholly unfair, he decided.
It wasn't fair Ania could work all his life and may never step foot outside his country, would never wake up to a Tuscan sunrise, or learn to dance the samba on a rooftop in Rio, or snorkel around the Phi Phi islands. It wasn't fair that a fairly progressive country, after a long history of mistreatment, still had one of the highest suicide rates in the world. Things are changing, people are becoming happier, the economy is on the rise, social commentators proclaimed. But Martin had a natural distrust of college educated people who spent more time researching the fringes of society than actually living on the fringes.
Now, Martin sat up, twisted his arms behind him and cracked his back. He glanced down at Ania and felt guilty for fucking him. He knew the new waiter, Andrei Arshavin, was totally in love with Ania, but Ania spent too much time dreaming and scheming to notice what was right in front of him. He didn't feel right being here anymore. Flopping back down on the bed, Martin decided it was time to go again.
When Martin called to tell Fernando, sheepishly, that he had lost his address, Fernando swept the issue aside, saying he could just meet Martin there. After hanging up, Fernando promptly returned to panicking. He had changed shirts for the ninth time and it was only eleven in the morning. He kept switching between two shirts, examining himself in the mirror, and then just when he thought he was settled, he would change his mind barely a minute later. He still had some time before he met up with Martin for their lunch (outing? date? rendezvous?) and his head had begun hurting. Fernando felt he needed to impress Martin like his life depended on it. He thought one wrong word or wrong move and Martin would definitely not like him. And he wanted Martin to like him. Badly.
After calling Xabi to yell at him for giving out his phone number, Xabi accurately assumed Fernando must have really been attracted to Martin and advised Fernando to call Daniel Agger. After making awkward small talk with Daniel, whom he had never called before, Dan finally said, "Cut the crap, Torres. You want the goods on Škrtel, don't you?" After taking Dan's teasing, Fernando only managed to weasel out three factoids, which he jotted down for reference:
1. Martin's favorite music was punk rock, grunge, post-hardcore—whatever that is, and "that noisy indie racket that all sound the same". –quoted from Dan
2. He didn't read books. (which prompted Fernando to draw a sad smiley by that)
3. He's agnostic.
Fernando looked at the shirt lying on his bed again, and then said out loud, "No. I am not changing my shirt again." He had been having a miniature, inner-battle with himself—did he want to appear well-cultured and defined, or should he make less of a statement and go with safe and unoffending. Well, not much of Fernando's clothes made a statement really, but he did have a black Ramones tee he thought Martin might appreciate. Except he didn't know if Martin liked the Ramones, so what if he hated the Ramones and became disgusted with Fernando at first glance? Fernando ended up folding up the Ramones tee and opting for safe and unoffending—a thin, light blue sweater with jeans.
The not reading part was almost criminal in Fernando's mind, but Fernando probably read enough for the both of them, so he could let it slide. The agnostic bit was interesting and didn't bother him—he wasn't terribly religious and had only gone to mass growing up because his mother made him.
Fernando sat down at the edge of his bed and buried his face in his hands, then feared he would make his face oily so he set them down in his lap. He couldn't do this. Fernando hadn't gone on a date—or whatever this was—since Olalla. Nevermind that was four years ago. Nevermind their relationship lasted three months. Nevermind Olalla was a girl and Martin is most definitely not.
He called Sergio.
"Why the fuck did you call me at this ungodly hour?"
"Good morning to you too. And it's not early."
"Any hour with a hangover is too early. What do you need, and if it can wait, it should, because my head is killing me."
"This guy invited me out to lunch—"
"A date? Good for you, I'm going back to sleep."
"No, wait! I don't know if it's a date, I mean, it might be, but it might not be. My friend pretty much forced him to ask me, so it could be some kind of pity offering. I don't know how to act, or what to do, or what to say! I'm twenty-four, I should know how to do this sort of thing!"
"Fernando, baby, calm down, wait, hold on a second."
Fernando's stomach did a flip at the word 'baby', but it quickly tightened when he heard noises in the background and the muffled sounds of Sergio cooing someone back to sleep.
"You still there?"
"Did you bring somebody home?" Fernando demanded. "Do you know how dangerous that is? Did you at least—"
"Chill the fuck out! We just started dating. And we weren't sloshed enough to not use a condom."
Fernando bit his lip. Sergio had gotten a new boyfriend. And he hadn't bothered telling him about it.
"Listen," Sergio said after taking a breath, "just go with the flow. Whoever this guy is, I hope he's a good guy and there are lots more dates after this and lots of fucking, because god, Fernando, you need it. The dating, and the fucking, I mean. Just don't freak out, and psycho-analyze him, and write him off when he's not perfect, and wow, I must not be that hungover because I'm making complete sense."
"Thank you, you always know the right things to say, even when you're saying the wrong things."
"Okay, now that doesn't make any sense."
"Go to sleep, Sergio."
"Will do with pleasure."
Fernando arrived ten minutes early because he liked being early and anything earlier than ten minutes would seem too eager, he decided. The owner, Pepe, was a bald, but young man with a jovial smile and a personality to match. Despite Fernando's standoffish front, Pepe was warm and energetic, keeping him company while Fernando waited for Martin to arrive.
When Fernando spotted Martin through the window, walking up, he immediately busied himself with gazing at the napkin dispenser and scratching the table with his fingernails. He didn't want to weird Martin out by eyeing him down like a hawk.
When Martin appeared at Fernando's table, the first thing he thought was, "His hair looks really soft."
The first thing he said, though, was, "You had to pick the table with the most sun in our faces. Let's move."
Any calm reserve Fernando had plummeted as he berated himself for already messing things up.
It must have shown on Fernando's face because then Martin cleared his throat and said, "But, being Spanish and all, you must like the sun. So, we don't have to move."
"No, we can sit somewhere else," Fernando said meekly. "You're right, the sun will be in your eyes, I wasn't thinking…."
But Martin was already pulling Fernando up by the arm and saying, "Order first. Then we can come back to the sunniest table in the entire restaurant and enjoy the sunlight before the weather gods curse us with a week-long monsoon. There's no rain like English rain."
The date—Fernando mentally declared it was indeed a date—went a lot better than Fernando thought it would go. At first the conversation was one-sided. Fernando didn't say much and Martin had to do most of the talking ("You never heard of Dead Kennedys? I have to make you listen to 'Nazi Punks Fuck Off'. That song's an absolute riot!"). Conversation became less one-sided when they discovered they actually had things in common. They were both football fanatics and Liverpool supporters ("Spain is going to break the curse, I know it." "I guess I could cheer for Spain. It's not like Slovakia made it or anything."). They liked black and white gumshoe detective movies ("The dame always plays the poor sap a fool!" "Never trust a beautiful woman if she's wearing lipstick." "Never trust a beautiful woman period.") They did agree on one thing, music-wise ("If you could change the British national anthem to any song, what would it be? "Bohemian Rhapsody?" "Fuck yes! There would be a nation-wide sing-a-long every time the anthem played!").
Martin raised his eyebrows at Fernando's meticulous way of eating, the way he took even sized bites from left to right. Fernando even folded his napkins into small squares before throwing them away. It was almost charming.
Sometimes, Martin accidentally brushed his feet against Fernando's. Sometimes, Martin purposely brushed his feet against Fernando's. Fernando pretended not to notice, but it was obvious he did and his voice would stutter on whatever he was saying when it happened. The only minor disaster occurred when they both cracked up laughing at the sight of Pepe rapping about toasted and untoasted bread. Their heads fell forward the same time and Martin's face was so close, Fernando flung back in shock, almost falling out of his chair. An odd look crossed Martin's face, but Martin didn't say anything. It was the only time Martin had held back so far.
Later, Martin glanced up at the clock on the wall and said, "Urgh, my shift starts soon and I have to change clothes. I'll call you though when I get off. I'm so glad Xabi made me do this."
Fernando's face fell. "So Xabi put you up to this?" Fernando asked dejectedly, looking gloomily at the table.
"No, that came out wrong! I mean, he sort of did, but it's not like I had to do this. I wanted to. Honestly, I really did. Especially after I kinda led you on at the library and then walked away."
"Oh, okay," Fernando said with uncertainty, and Martin mentally kicked himself for planting the seed of doubt.
He placed his hands on top of Fernando's.
"I want to see you again, Fernando," he said matter-of-factly, "and I say that because I like you."
The first kiss did not occur until the third time they saw each other, which Martin felt was a great accomplishment since his days of sex on the first date. He didn't quite understand it. It wasn't like he didn't want to kiss Fernando, but there was never an uncontrollable urge rising in him to actually do it, which he felt was a bad sign. Fernando was disappointingly not flirtatious in the slightest bit, stiffened every time Martin touched him, and treated Martin more like a guy friend than somebody he was attracted to. Maybe he had read the signals all wrong and Fernando was just looking for companionship. Whatever vibe Fernando was giving, it wasn't exactly what Martin had in mind. And he said so.
"This is confusing as fuck," Martin told him plainly.
The two of them were in a bookstore looking for a book the library didn't have. Fernando was looking, anyway, while Martin sneered at slender, young men who wore argyle sweater vests. Right now, he hated sweater vests. And argyle. And men who looked like they would faint at the sight of blood. He hated the lot of them, the fucking pussies with their pompous, loud arguments about which book on British imperialism in Asia was more accurate. None of them had probably ever held a gun or gotten in a fight. Fucking pussies.
Fernando smiled and said, "The store is divided by genre, and the books are in alphabetical order. It's not that confusing."
Then, he turned his attention back to the book he was holding.
"No, not that, I mean…you," Martin tried again.
Fernando made a noncommittal sound and flipped through a few pages of the book.
Martin did not like being ignored. He yanked the book out of Fernando's hand, much to his protest.
"I might buy that book!"
"It's just a rip off of 'Lord of the Rings'. Look at the cover. It looks like fuckin' Orlando Bloom, or Lego-elf, whatever."
Martin must have said something very, very wrong because Fernando slowly tilted his head and looked at Martin like he was seeing him in a new light. A light he didn't particularly like.
"Oh Christ, please tell me you're not one of those guys who plays Dungeons and Dragons and dresses up like Wolverine at those festivals and has a poster of Princess Leia hanging above his bed," Martin begged.
Fernando stared at his feet and mumbled, "No, that would be stupid."
Then that uncontrollable urge was rising in Martin and he pulled Fernando into his arms, feeling in Fernando's limbs first surprise, then stiffness, then a gradual relaxation.
"Is there a reason for—" Fernando started, but then Martin leaned down and kissed the side of his mouth.
Fernando tried to twist out of Martin's grip after that, but Martin held on tightly and declared, "I don't care if you quote Star Trek or watch anime or read Harry Potter, you're still hot and I want you."
Martin seemed to attack Fernando's mouth, pressing for a proper kiss. Fernando froze and didn't return the kiss until Martin actually growled. Slowly, Fernando managed to move his lips, trying to mimic Martin's actions while at the same time worrying about his spit and his breath and his dry lips. Martin sought to deepen the kiss, plunging his tongue in Fernando's mouth after a while, and that was when Fernando pushed Martin away forcibly, Martin's teeth scraping Fernando's lip as they broke apart.
Martin's eyes zeroed in on Fernando's swollen red lips and thought it was the worst and best kiss first kiss he had ever had.
After Fernando gained some composure, he bent down to retrieve the forgotten book, shelving it as he determinedly did not make eye contact.
"Star Wars is way cooler than Star Trek," Fernando said, running his hand across the shelf to press the books even, "I don't watch anime, and Harry Potter is a classic."
He turned and took a tentative step closer to Martin, his hands curling and uncurling. "And," Fernando said in a small voice, "I may…happen…to want you too."
Martin took a step forward to rid of the distance between them.
"Come home with me tonight," he said.
"No, I can't," Fernando answered, apologetically.
"No, really, I can't."
Martin and Fernando turned their heads to see an employee fiddling with his name badge.
"I don't mean to interrupt," the employee said, "but we close at 10, and it's 10:15…."
On the way to Fernando's apartment, they rolled the windows down and Martin blasted leaked Jaguar Love, a band Fernando could not seem to like. It didn't help when Martin seemed to be competing with the music, laughing and yelling unintelligible things as he sped down the road, breaking the limit for sure. Fernando held onto his seatbelt tightly, thinking about Martin and the dust on the dashboard, and Martin some more, when Martin turned the volume up even higher and screamed lyrics out the window, "He-e-ey give us our money or we'll break your fucking legs—lets race to the desert!" Then suddenly a cop was behind them, but this seemed to spur Martin on. He stuck his hand through the window and flipped out his middle finger, all while half-screaming, half-singing, "He-e-ey, I could use a stiff drink, or just some time to think—let's race the ocean!"
"When are you going to come visit me?" Sergio asked.
Fernando, lounging in a Nike t-shirt and pajama pants, shrugged his shoulders before realizing Sergio couldn't see that over the phone.
"Sometime over the summer. I miss my family. And my dog."
"And me most of all. How's the sex?"
"What? No. We haven't. No, just no."
Fernando could hear Sergio tsking and tutting.
"I'm not like you. It's not about the sex," Fernando said stubbornly.
"I just turned twenty-two and you're not that old yourself. I have plenty of time before I have to get married and settle down with kids. Didn't a wise man once say 'get some ass while you can because you're only young once'?"
"If that wise man was you, yes, of course."
"Nereida's new boyfriend crashed my birthday party. Miguel—you remember Miguel, right?—opens the door and this shithead rampages in and was like, 'You fucked my girl! She told me she was a virgin, but you fucked her first!'"
Fernando, always an astute listener, listened to Sergio's story, paying attention to the rises and falls in Sergio's voice, the way the rhythm of his story quickened and slowed. Sergio, always a dramatic storyteller, ended his story with, "You should have seen that little diva—he was so tan it was disgusting."
That was the way it always was. It was always when would Fernando go see Sergio, never the other way around. It was always Fernando who listened to Sergio's stories, but sometimes, when Fernando ever had anything to say, Sergio would grow bored, or distracted. They were friends, yes, but being with Sergio had seemed to cement Fernando's lowly status instead of helping it.
Sergio was effervescent, drew people in without trying, enticed women and men with a single unbuttoned button. When it was just the two of them, it was fine, but Fernando felt out of place when he was with Sergio's friends. He wasn't like them. He never said the right thing or the cool thing, didn't know how to toss in a one-liner that would cause eruptions of laughter. Even when they talked about football, Fernando didn't know what to say because they were all Madridistas and Fernando supported Atlético. People outright ignored him if he was with Sergio because Sergio brought the party wherever he went while Fernando was the guy constantly listening to his iPod because he didn't know what to say to people.
In the apartment they shared, Fernando cleaned up Sergio's things because it bothered him. Sergio, delighted, would reward Fernando with a peck on the cheek and a false promise to help out around the place next time.
That was the way it always was, and for the first time in Fernando's life, he realized he liked being away from that.
"You seem happier."
Fernando jumped and hit his elbow on the bookshelf.
"Oh, you scared me!"
Fernando narrowed his eyes. That was a pretty knowing grin Rafa sported. A little too knowing.
"I hear you got yourself a boyfriend," Rafa continued, still grinning knowingly.
The look of open mouthed horror on Fernando's face led Rafa to quickly add, "My wife called you out on the gay thing a while ago."
Embarrassed, Fernando really just wanted to melt into the bookshelf and pretend Rafa, his boss, his almost father figure, was not gossiping with his wife about Fernando's sexuality.
Rafa gave him a pat on the shoulder and said, "It's okay, I don't care who you sleep with, not that I wanted to know in the first place. But you seem a lot happier, more carefree, so keep doing whatever it is you're doing, well, I don't mean 'doing' like 'doing', but you know…"
Rafa trailed off, stumbling over his words as he left.
Fernando's face was burning.
Martin had a gig as a waiter in an upscale restaurant.
"The kind of people who come here piss me off," Martin once complained. "They're all a bunch of rich bitches and fat businessmen and old guys with barely legal wives. It totally sucks balls having to deal with those kinds of people, but they leave good tips and I gotta pay rent somehow. It's a sickening system. All of us, like dogs, having to serve people who don't give a damn about the rest of the world."
Fernando realized a lot of people pissed Martin off, or at least irritated him to some degree—people who walked slowly, the religious-right, politicians, trust fund teens, emo kids, Coldplay, people who brought babies to the movie theatre, PETA, annoying Chelsea fans, annoying Arsenal fans, annoying Man U fans, mall rats, Bible thumpers, the people from Greenpeace who harassed him by the bus stop, the list went on. Fernando didn't really get pissed off; he was too busy trying to not piss anybody else off.
He waved shyly at Martin through the window and Martin met him outside in the front parking lot. It was three in the afternoon, a slow hour.
"Miss me, babe?" Martin asked in a low tone, trying to kiss him, but Fernando backed away. Public displays of affection were not his forte.
"Rafa let me leave," Fernando said, "but I have to be back. I just wanted to see you."
Fernando's voice had started tittering at the end of that sentence. Martin was so close and he was almost nuzzling Fernando's neck. The breaths sent tingles all the way down to Fernando's toes.
"We could, I don't know, we can, let's just, we could rent a movie tonight," Fernando babbled as Martin hummed in agreement against Fernando's neck. Then Martin hooked a finger into the waistband of Fernando's slacks, rubbing the knuckle against his naval. Warning signs rocketed off in his mind as pulled Martin's finger out and hissed, "We are in public! Everyone can see us." Martin blinked at him, clearly unaffected.
"Seeing what we can get away with is the best part," Martin said with amusement.
Fernando glared at him and adjusted Martin's collar.
"It was bothering me," he muttered at the same time Martin sarcastically said, "You going to re-tie my shoelaces too?"
"For that comment, I'm picking the movie," Fernando snapped, spinning on his heels.
Martin grinned and wondered if it was normal for someone so indignant to be such a turn-on for him.
The seating arrangement did not please Martin in the slightest bit. The movie choice—'Gattaca'—wasn't a bad movie so far, but not exactly a mood setter. Martin had explained earlier his roommate was on vacation and wouldn't be back for a couple days. Despite having the apartment to themselves, Fernando sought to punish Martin by sitting on the other end of the couch, his hands folded in his lap like a good little boy. Martin did not like good little boys.
What Martin didn't know was that Fernando was acutely aware of what he was doing. Maybe, Fernando thought, if they didn't touch all night, the inevitable wouldn't happen. It wasn't like he was asexual—he had definitely touched Olalla's breasts, had definitely touched his own body thinking about Sergio. He also had definitely had his fair share of erotic dreams since his beginning trysts in the joys of puberty ten years ago. As much as he wanted to let Martin simply manhandle him and do wicked things, there were a lot of things holding him back.
For starters, the only company visiting the region down there since forever was his own hand. What if Martin touched him once and Fernando just came like a sixteen-year-old, unexpectedly, all over Martin's hand? He would be so incredibly embarrassed and Martin would make jokes about Fernando's stamina. What if Martin wanted him to give him a blowjob? Fernando definitely saw many pitfalls with that seeing as he had never given anyone a blowjob before. Martin would be so unimpressed—what if Martin actually got soft in Fernando's mouth because it was the worst blowjob ever? Another problem was his body. He didn't work out enough, he was too pale, he was too freckled, and he had a birthmark on his ass. Fernando could just imagine a scenario where he pulled his jeans down and Martin, glancing from Fernando's cock to face, saying, "That's all? I can barely see it."
And this was all before the actual sex. Fernando's insides shuddered to think of how dumbfounded Martin would be at a twenty-year-old virgin who had only touched a girl's breasts because she forced him through intimidation. He could just imagine Martin joking with his friends over some beers later as they all went around telling each other about the most horrible sex they had ever had. Martin's story would become infamous. Xabi would even snicker at Fernando the next time he saw him. Fernando would become a laughing stock, his name synonymous with bad sex. Spain would lose its sex appeal all because of him, a pathetic shame to his own mother country.
Some time, while Fernando was lost in his logical reasoning, Martin had moved a lot closer and gotten a hand on Fernando's thigh.
"What are you thinking about?" Martin whispered.
"I'm watching the movie," Fernando lied, placing his own hand on top of Martin's to stop it from inching its way up.
"Liar, liar, pants on fire," Martin sang softly, as he reached up stroke Fernando's hair out of his face.
When he could feel Martin's breath ghosting the curve of his ear, Fernando shrank lower in his seat. Undeterred, Martin began nibbling on the tip of Fernando's ear and Fernando wanted to give in so badly, it would be so easy, but he couldn't. He didn't with Sergio and he wasn't going to now. He put his arms over his head, blocking Martin out. Martin sighed, disgruntled. He reached for the remote to turn the movie off, and asked, not even caring to hide his annoyance, "Why don't you fucking stop thinking about what bothers you and just tell me. Being with you is like constant work sometimes."
Fernando put his arms down and chewed on his lip, hurt and upset.
Then Martin was leaning back, pulling Fernando down with him so Fernando was lying on top of him. He reached up, playing with wisps of hair that curled around Fernando's ears.
"I'm sorry I snapped at you," Martin said, sincerely, coaxing Fernando's head down.
"I'm sorry I'm like this," Fernando said, staring into Martin's shirt. "I've never been in an intimate relationship before," he admitted, cringing at how that sounded. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do, or how to make you feel good, or what to expect. You said I was work, and I'm sorry I am. I'm trying to be better at this, but I'm scared I can't be any better, and please, stay with me a little longer. Take it or leave it, but if you're going to leave, please don't leave so soon. I'm still trying to do all the right things that will make you keep liking me."
Martin was quiet for a long time, so long it made Fernando even more nervous that he already was.
"I can't promise you forever," Martin finally started, "but I can promise you right now. I'm going to stay with you. We're going to make this happen." He kissed Fernando's forehead and said, "Spend the night with me."
As if he could sense Fernando analyzing all the possible reasons why that would not be a good idea, Martin distracted him by asking, "Do you know poetry?"
Fernando nodded against Martin's chest.
"My mother likes poetry. Tell me a poem, any poem, one that you like."
The room was silent for a while, but Martin knew Fernando was still awake.
"Batallas, tempestades, amorios,
por mar y tierra, lances, descripciones,
de campos y ciudades, desafios
y el desastre y furor de las pasiones,
goces, dichas, aciertos, desvaríos,
con algunas morales reflexiones
acerca de la vida y de la muerte,
de mi propia cosesha, que es mi fuerte."
They drifted off to a dreamless sleep.
i. According to the World Health Organization, Russia has the third highest suicide rate in the world, doubling since 1990. Economic unrest, coupled with alcoholism, is said to be one of the main reasons.
ii. Dead Kennedys is a California punk rock band that came to fame in the late 1970s. The band was known for their provocative, often times sarcastic lyrics expressing political and social commentary.
iii. José de Espronceda was a 19th century Spanish poet. He was also a part of the romanticism movement.
Battles, tempests, love affairs,
by sea and land, deeds, descriptions
of countryside and cities, challenges
and the disaster and furor of passions,
enjoyments, happiness, successes, deliriums,
with some moral reflections
about to life and to death,
of my own harvest, that is my strength.
author's note: Thank you always to Greenie for reading, despite tough times. And thank you to anyone who has left feedback and is patiently keeping up. Any comments, corrections, and criticisms are greatly appreciated.