wish you were here.

Why yes, this country is ready to PARTY LIKE A BARACK STAR.

2008-11-05T15:39:09Z

A very, very important event happened that warranted a quick intrusion in my hiatus.

There's a new sheriff in town.

Travis County was one of several speckles of blue in mostly likely a sea of red (my home county actually went McCain). Texas of course went red.

But in the end, my main main won. :]

Now, back to not sleeping, doing---well, it's anybody's guess, and ignoring love.
In other words: college, college, and college.

i want someone who will never betray me

2008-08-21T01:07:19Z

Title: The Motionless Hours (III)
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

Part I
Part II

III.
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.

"Yes."

"No, really, I can't."

"Um, guys?"

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.

And then—

"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.

it's so hard to be good

2008-07-24T14:12:11Z

Title: Damn You Look Good and I’m Drunk
Disclaimer: real people caught in fictional situations
Characters: David Villa, David Silva, La Selección
Rating: PG
Summary: Highly unrealistic. Inspired by David Silva’s amusing post-Euro celebration photos. (Title credit to Cobra Starship.)

David thought Silva should stay away from alcohol from now on, even if he had to personally make sure of it. He and Puyol had made a bet of no monetary value on who would be the first to get sloshed. David had picked Torres out at first, thinking he was a light-weight. Then he remembered Torres would probably cut short on the bar shenanigans to lock himself up in the hotel room and have phone sex with his girlfriend. And probably the boring kind of phone sex too.

David settled on Íker, who had been in his underwear earlier, waving around cheap champagne. Puyol guessed Silva (“He’s still in the young and foolish stage of his life!” argued Puyol), which made David scoff. He and Silva played on the same team, and he definitely knew Silva better than Carles Puyol.

Except alcohol had no boundaries when an entire nation was coming off a 44 year sobriety stint.

And Silva, apparently, could hold his alcohol as well as a bottomless cup.

David’s only 26, but he already felt too old to be playing babysitter for the inebriated. But then he saw various strangers, mostly male, start getting grabby with Silva, who just kept laughing in a stupor at whatever dumb joke they made. And David definitely did not like that.

“Come here, you little fucker,” David snarled, slipping an arm around Silva’s waist.

He made up some excuse about teammates taking care of each other, and a loyalty to both country and club, to explain his sudden feeling of protectiveness.

“What, where are we going?” Silva asked, confused, but still nestling into David’s side.

“Taking you somewhere safe, where you won’t get molested or doing something you regret,” David explained with the patience of a parent who was impatient and easily irritated.

Silva rolled his eyes dramatically (or at least he tried to, he knew his eyeballs were moving in some manner) and said, “A little too late for the molesting part. Some woman shoved my face in her tits and I swear her boyfriend just laughed and then patted my ass.”

“That,” David said as he roughly shoved Silva into a booth, “would be called an invitation to a threesome.”

“Oh,” Silva said. And then, a beat later, and perkier, “Oh!”

David could see Puyol smirking at him from across the room and he kinda sorta wanted to walk over there and yank Puyol’s hair out.

“You made me lost a bet,” David grumbled, ignoring the fact it was a bet of no monetary value. Still, there was his pride and the smirking face of Carles Puyol.

“I’m sorry,” Silva said with convincing sincerity. “If it makes you feel any better, I watched Ramos get his ass waxed once.”

“Oh, ew. Please let me dig my fingernails into my skull in hopes of scratching that mental image out.”

“He said he likes having company when he gets waxed. I know, weird, right? Maybe it’s like related to some sort of repressed sex kink.”

“God, you’re so weird when you’re drunk.”

“I’m not that drunk!” Silva defended, blinking drunkenly. Then, a moment later—“I’m not!”

David rubbed Silva’s back soothingly and said, “You keep telling yourself that.”

The night progressed rather quickly, and rather memorably. They were, after all, the new kings of European football. At some point David left Silva’s side to get slightly drunk himself. Silva used the opportunity to drown shots like water and let fans take as many pictures as they wanted. It was a very good night to be Spanish.

It got not so good around three o’ clock in the morning when Silva threw up on Íker’s pants. Drunk, enraged Íker with vomit down the front of his pants was a pretty intimidating sight. David, only buzzed now, whisked Silva away from impending danger.

“I feel like shit,” Silva later moaned as the pair sat outside on the curv and his body slumped against David’s.

“You look like shit too,” David added unhelpfully.

“But Íker will forgive me, right?” Silva asked earnestly, gazing up at David’s face.

And David, as unforgiving as he could be, simply stroked Silva’s head and said, “He will. You’re too damn forgivable.”

And then, as unforgiving as he could be, he added, “Which is incredibly annoying. Cut it out and man up to your fuck-ups.”

But Silva was already nodding off to sleep.

“That little fucker,” David said to no one in particular.

admit it: you can barely remember his face

2008-07-24T13:24:40Z

Title: Vientiane (Remix, fandom verse)
Disclaimer: In real life, it didn't happen with these people.
Characters: Sergio Ramos, Fernando Torres
Rating: PG
Summary: AU. S and F meet in a tiny country in a big continent.

They pronounce it vien jun and it’s the biggest city in Laos, the go-to city, the capital city. Rain skitters there like it would rather be drenching other places with less people, places like Paksane. The roads boast of dust and tuk-tuks and carpooling university students. Blonde foreigners with stoic faces zip by on bicycles, unnerved by the lack of road rules, but trying not to show it.* S is one of those foreigners, except he’s not blonde, his face is hardly ever stoic, and he would rather catch a tuk-tuk than take a bike. It is also the city where S meets F, or F meets S depending on who the witness is.

F’s aunt teaches a small group of English-speaking Lao students who would rather take on Spanish as their third language than Japanese. F, who knows some Thai from when his aunt had come back from Thailand, tags along for the summer. He gets a job when he realizes he has nothing to do.

F works with ten people—seven Lao, three Chinese. (He, himself, is Spanish, which throws the picture off completely.) They work at a media tech corner in a Chinese market. The entire place looks like a sad side note in a week-old newspaper. A little ways away, the shoe store owner, sweating a bit, says the owners are too cheap to turn on the air conditioning. People in Laos don’t see any novelty in an indoor shopping center with no air conditioning. She also makes it a point to mention that the owners are Chinese, not Lao.

And seriously, what are the odds S would find another Spanish-speaking person tucked away in this deserted gem of a place?

F’s world spins on the axis he stands on, but makes no revolutions. S, who always seems to fall in and out of revolutions, must spin towards him. S moves, closer and closer, and when he gets close enough, he realizes what F doesn’t: that he is about to crash into him, that they both want it to happen.

S sets the bait with the bat of an eye. And even though S is the one who sets the trap, they both collide on a surprisingly equal level. F’s not shy now, even with ten co-workers casually eavesdropping on him, not understanding a word of Spanish. Even if he thinks S looks a bit like a diva, F is happy to find someone who knows his language. It is the last time S underestimates F.

F talks with his hands when he says simple things in Lao to S, sometimes to the point of insulting S’s intelligence. F is the one doing the work he’s paid to do, but S is the one doing the most work and it shows. F nudges S towards the fan with polite enthusiasm, not wanting S to wilt. S adjusts the sound mixer, and asks a legitimate question that a diva about to wilt would not ask. It is the last time F underestimates S.

(F asks the dreaded, number one most asked question.

S answers with a day and a time.

F feels his chest tighten at the information.

His ten co-workers have already left their respective posts to hover near the gossip fodder.

He’s got money, F says to them in Lao.

S, now knowing what F said, glares about the injustice of it all.)

They see each other two times after that. F’s world makes no revolutions, but only because he has no other choice. S, whose world is full of choices, must spin towards him. They create a new planet, the planet of S&F. S’s name gets first billing and F think it’s fair since S had to make all the first moves. F’s co-workers are ecstatic something new and exciting has finally shaken their otherwise routine days.

(I want a love story, F says.

I want a story about you, F says.

What about you? S asks.

That’s not important, F says.

Love is, F says.)

In the planet of S&F, S has few boundaries and fewer stipulations. He can cross the line and come back again, relatively unharmed. F, however, doesn’t have the resources like S does. He has to have rules, and he can’t break them all for him—not that S expects him to, not that F could if he tried because he’s definitely thought about trying.

(S is thoroughly disappointed when they come for him at last.

I have to go, S says.

Then go, F wants to snap.

See if I care, F wants to say in his most surly tone.

But F is not angry in the least bit, only as disappointed as S is.

F doesn’t say anything, just presses his mouth in a thin, sorry line.

He watches him abandon the planet of S&F, like he knew he would all along.)

The thing about planets is that they need love and nourishment. They need people to not start apocalyptic wars over money and God. They need people to care enough to not let them go up in the flames of nuclear waste and deforestation. They need people who still believe human souls are connected to all other humans and everything that is there. Neither the planet nor the people want to end up with the last resort, the final war or spiritual cleansing or whatever the new generation calls it: where one must destroy the other. Either the people go or the planet goes, but there can’t be both. Nobody wants the situation to go to that.

S regrets not telling F that he is, indeed, important. F regrets not breaking the rules for S, but then remembers he couldn’t, even if he tried. They feel cheated by their own responsibilities, their sense of duty, their voice of reason.

Fast forward a month and not much has changed. F’s world spins on the axis that binds him, preventing him from making any revolutions. S’s world turns and turns, following revolutions that won’t lead him back to F.

Somewhere, equal galaxies between F and S, a planet dies young.

*The age of colonialism is over, but European tourists still try to dissociate themselves from that guilty part of their history. By not voicing complaint during their cultural immersions, they think it is their way of redeeming themselves from crimes their motherland committed.†

†This is despite the fact most of the victimized countries in the world have forgiven and moved on.

author's note: i never thought S/F would get posted in this journal, but go figure. the original version of this story was inspired by my two weeks in laos, which also inspired version two. because if you think about it, two people who have never met another two people could be facing the same thing without ever knowing it.

you split me at my seams

2008-07-19T05:50:01Z

Title: The Motionless Hours (II)
Disclaimer: all made up
Characters: Fernando Torres, Martin Škrtel, the Liverpool crowd
Rating: PG-13 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

Part I

II.

Seven-year-old Fernando Torres was hauling his bucket of collected sea shells to where his brother and sister were building a sand dragon.

"Look at how many sea shells I have," Fernando chirped, proudly turning the bucket upside down. Digging through them, he picked out two he had found earlier and presented them to Mari Paz. "These are for the eyes," he explained. Israel ruffled Fernando's wet hair as Mari Paz placed the two shells in place with slow precision. Fernando, meanwhile, had already begun dividing up the shells. He wanted to group them by shape, the largest to smallest.

"Papa! Papa! Come take a picture!" Mari Paz shrieked.

In the photograph: A five foot long sand dragon with two shell eyes, difficult to make out in the photo. A grinning Israel crouched by the head, in banana yellow swim trunks and ridiculous skunk-like highlights in his hair. Also by him, Mari Paz, in a pink bikini that showed off the beginnings of her new chest, much to the disapproval of her father. At the tail end sat the baby of the family, Fernando, not even looking at the camera, his face tilted down in concentration as he sorted his shells.

"Sir, do you need any help looking for anything?" Rafa inquired when he saw the young man walk in, somewhat dazed, looking about as if he had stepped into the wrong building.

"No, just…browsing," Martin answered distractedly. Browsing for a boy, he added silently.

As he explored the library, passing the serene readers curled up with books, Martin felt out of his element. He had never set foot in a library before. Not back in Slovakia, not in Russia, not here, not ever. He breathed a sigh of relief when he spotted Fernando at a table, picking up discarded books. He eyed one of the books—a pictorial biography of Princess Diana—and checked the section he was in. Biographies. Well, today was just his lucky day.

He ducked behind a shelf before Fernando could see him, grabbing the book nearest to him when Fernando began walking his way.

When Martin looked up, Fernando was standing right in front of him, startling Martin slightly.

"Wow, small world after all," Martin said with convincing earnest, closing the book he had been pretending to read.

Fernando tilted his head ever so slightly to the side and gave Martin a curious look (which Martin found all too adorable, and God, when did he start thinking of grown men as adorable?).

"I did not peg you as the type who is following Mrs. Beckham," Fernando said amusedly, allowing Martin a reserved smile.

Martin looked down at the book he had snagged. A biography of Victoria Beckham, great.

"She's quite fascinating," Martin managed rather lamely. "Okay, I just thought there would be pictures of her half-naked inside."

Fernando laughed loudly at that, but quickly covered his mouth, his face showing embarrassment at his own little outburst in the quiet library.

Then, an afterthought hit Fernando: Okay, I just thought there would be pictures of her half-naked inside. So Martin wasn't gay?

"I need to re-shelve these books," Fernando said hastily, straightening up in what he hoped appeared brisk and business-like.

"Yeah, sure, you do your job," Martin said cheerily. "I'll be over there, reading about the life struggles of Posh Spice." Then, leaning in close to Fernando's ear so he could feel his breath, Martin added cheekily, "You should come visit me when you're done with those books. I didn't come here for Vicky."

When he was nineteen, Martin ran away from home. He was done with Handlová. He was restless. He was heading to wherever his finger landed on the map of the world.

The first time, his finger landed in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Living on a ship didn't seem too appealing. He would probably get horny and fuck his shipmates. He knew what they said about sailors.

The second time, his finger landed in North Korea. Communism was never really his style. Plus, what if they found him living there illegally, forced him into Korean citizenship, and never allowed him out of the country again? He had heard the stories.

The third time, his finger landed in Russia.

He got a job at a restaurant serving simplified Russian food to tourists cautious of trying anything new. One afternoon, during the sluggish three o' clock hour, he was having a smoke break with another waiter—Ania, when Martin said, "Russia is pretty nice."

Ania laughed and took another drag before passing the cigarette to Martin.

"Saint Petersburg is the capital," Ania said, "so of course it's nice. In the area we live anyway. But tell me, why did you leave Slovakia?"

"Get away from the same places, same faces," Martin said immediately. "I wanted to be like one of those guys who hop trains without knowing where they go, and take road trips to toward the end of the sunset, and ride motorcycles through the countryside like lone rebels."

"A regular beatnik, then? A Jack Kerouac chasing a different version of the American dream," Ania chuckled.

"A regular what? A who?"

"For God's sake, did they not teach you to read over there?"

"I read," Martin defended hotly. "Ever heard of Ivan V. Lalic?"

"Did you just make him up?"

"No, dumb fuck, he's a Serbian poet. Who's the pretentious intellect, now?"

"Okay, okay, what about him?"

"When I was a kid, if you can believe it, I used to have anger management problems—"

"Believing it."

"—so my mother read me poetry to calm me down. My father hated it, said I would turn into a fag with all those flowery words implanted in my head."

"And look at you now, anything but," Ania said, staring down at his scuffed shoes with a forced smile.

Martin gave Ania a strange look, but Ania didn't catch it.

"So, lone rebel," Ania began, "why don't you get out? Go experience Russia. If you know history, you know she's lived a sad life."

"Yeah, I saw 'Anastasia' with my sister. In that movie Anastasia lived. And she found that cute little dog, so life couldn't be too bad."

Ania shoved Martin playfully and stole the cigarette back.

"Make your jokes, but I want you to see more of Russia than just this. That's the only way to really understand a country. Go visit the smaller cities. Then go visit my hometown at least if you miss the nightlife."

And there was something about the way Ania was talking, his immense love for everything he was a part of, and some sort of wondrous dream that shone in his eyes, that made Martin truly appreciate his friend.

Martin flicked the cigarette out of Ania's hand and used his shoe to snuff it out.

"What are—" Ania began, but Martin scooped the back of Ania's head with his hand and crashed their lips together, effectively killing off any room for words.

It was fifteen after three in the afternoon. At the back of a modest-looking restaurant there were two boys sitting on the curb, dressed in black slacks, black button-up shirts, and aprons. One is Russian, the other is not. The Russian is twenty-one years old, the other is nineteen. They were young, but not too young, and probably not in love. But just for that moment, they were simply two boys kissing behind a restaurant, tasting smoke on each other's lips, exploring each other's mouths with the fervor of two people who have just realized they are unsatisfied.

Fernando knew actually approaching Martin would wreck his nerves if thinking about it already made him nervous. But the way Martin made his insides churn was different than when he first met Xabi, or Daniel, or Rafa. There was some sort of fluttering along with it, a winged hope, a something. It made him even more nervous because he recognized that fluttering as the same one he got when he met Sergio.

Taking a deep breath, Fernando began walking over to where Martin was sitting. It took him exactly twenty-one steps and if he thought counting would have calmed him down, oh was he wrong.

Martin, shoved in a plush loveseat a tad too small, cocked an eyebrow at him. Fernando was standing in front of him, fidgeting slightly, starting at Martin's Puma sneakers.

"Hello, beautiful," Martin said.

"Hi."

Martin inwardly groaned. Back to the one-word responses of day one. Standing up, he stretched up, reaching behind his back. The chair was not made for all six feet four inches of him. Fernando tried not to stare at the pale sliver of skin when Martin's shirt rose up.

"Listen," Fernando said quickly, and the fact he was speaking faster than he was thinking terrified him because suddenly he was saying, "I do not normally do this, I mean, but I am supposed to be working right now, and you seem interesting—and I mean that statement in good way—maybe if you would like to talk to me again I can give you my phone number, but only if you want, and I'm sorry, I am talking very too much, sorry, you don't have to, maybe is better—"

"Hey," Martin interrupted, slipping his hand on Fernando's shoulder and giving it a squeeze. "It's okay, don't worry about it. Just pretend you never met me."

He handed Fernando the Victoria Beckham biography.

"Take care," Martin said before leaving.

Fernando spent fifteen minutes in the biography section, leaning his head against the books, and agonizing over everything he must have done wrong.

"You coming with me to see Liverpool play Man U?"

"I can't, Xabi," Martin said, then ordered a beer. "Forgot to ask off work."

At that moment, a score of Liverpool supporters barged in and the pub turned into a massive (singing) conga line of red. Liverpool had just beaten Everton 2-0, with both goals scored by Steven Gerrard.

"More beers, I'm predicting," Xabi noted.

"Oh yeah, I didn't mention it earlier, but I ran into Fernando again," Martin shouted over the boisterous singing.

But Xabi was too busy in between flirting with a few ladies who had showed up and an enthusiastic post-game talk with other customers.

"And by 'ran into', you mean staked a claim on the library until he showed up, right?" Xabi finally shouted back, making his way over.

"And by 'see Liverpool play', you mean stalk Steven Gerrard after the game, right?"

"You're so not funny. So when's the first date, or for you, first fuck? Or has one of those already happened?"

"Never. He's too socially awkward and I'm too impatient. I don't know how we'd ever hold a conversation."

"And by 'conversation', you mean—"

"Oh fuck off, Xabi."

"Well, you two do seem like a mismatch, but it could have at least been entertaining. Besides, Fernando needs a boost in his social life."

"Xabi!" a voice rang out.

"Pepe!"

A bald man managed to squeeze himself in next to Martin.

"Brilliant game, eh!" Pepe said gleefully. "After the first twenty minutes anyway. Ten minutes in and I thought we were cooked."

"Oh I know! How's the restaurant coming along?"

"Good, good," Pepe said animatedly. "Made some changes to the menu because people complained we weren't vegetarian-friendly."

"Wait, but you make sandwiches. Why don't they just ask for the sandwich without meat?" Xabi asked.

"That's what I thought! But hey, that's what 'The Vegetarian' is, except now they don't even have to ask."

"Makes it sound like they're ordering vegetarians to eat, though," Martin interjected.

"Hm, you're right. I should probably change that before they complain about us being too cannibal-friendly. Hey, I've never seen you around. You should drop by sometime!"

"Pepe, get your ass over here!" someone yelled.

"Have to run," Pepe said hurriedly. "Nice meeting you—"

"Martin."

"—Martin!"

Xabi slid a napkin over to Martin and said, "Fernando's number. You are taking him to Pepe's, and you are going to be nice to him. One word from Fernando that you were an asshole, or variation of any sort, and you won't be welcome here."

"Persistent little bitch, you are," Martin grumbled.

Xabi merely blew a kiss.

Meanwhile, Fernando was at home furiously scribbling away in his notebook. If there was one thing he knew he was good at, it was making lists.

REASONS WHY I WOULDN'T HAVE LIKED HIM ANYWAY
1. We don't know each other.
2. His hair is too short.
3. He was reading a book about Victoria Beckham.
4. He was only leading me on.
5. He's actually straight.
6. And only wants to experiment.
7. I don't like his shoes.
8. He looks angry all the time.
9. If I piss him off, he might kick my ass.
10. Then eat me alive.
11. Before spitting me back out and burying me.
12. They'll never find my body.
13. My mother would cry herself to sleep every night.
14. Sergio might confess his love for me tonight.
15. In which case I will need to take the first flight back to Spain.
Then Fernando realized a cons-list was nothing without a pros-list, and grudgingly wrote on the other page.

REASONS WHY I WOULD HAVE LIKED HIM
1. He's hot.
2. And has nice tattoos.
3. On his shapely arms.
4. That accompany his rather fit body.
5. He's friends with Xabi, who isn't stupid.
6. He's exotic.
7. I've never been to Slovakia.
8. His eyes.
9. His lips.
10. Maybe even his nose.
11. The way his shirt looks on his body.
12. The way I imagine his shirt would look off his body.
13. He could kick other people's asses for me.
14. Sergio will never confess his love for me.
15. In which case I will need to get over him.
16. For real this time.

Fernando glared down at his own list. Somehow he ended up with sixteen pros and only fifteen cons. For sake of symmetry, he crossed out 'I've never been to Slovakia'. But now the arguments were dead even. He tore out the 'Reasons Why I Would Have Liked Him' page and tossed it in the recycling bin. There was no point having that page because he wouldn't have liked him anyway. He wouldn't have, he insisted to himself firmly.

A beeping alerted him someone had sent him a text message. Fernando flipped his phone open, expecting a reply from Sergio involving the words 'I miss you' (hopefully, thought Fernando) or a sentimental message from his mother reminding him how much she loved him (an ill-disguised plea to come back home).

fernando its martin. u free around noon tomorrow?

Fernando replied:
How did you get my number?

xabi, that minx

He should have known. Xabi was the one who gave Daniel Agger Fernando's number back in the days when Daniel wanted to sleep with him. Fernando spent the next ten minutes debating on how to reply. And then waited five more minutes so he didn't seem desperate.

He replied with:
Yes

He thought short and simple would come off as coolly unaffected and only marginally interested. The phone rang and when he saw the number, Fernando waited until the third ring to pick up.

"Hello?" Fernando asked evenly as if he didn't know who it was. As if his heart wasn't quickening at the possibility that might come next.

"Good," Martin said, skipping any form of greeting. "Because I am picking you up tomorrow at 11:45 for lunch, whether you like it or not. Pepe's Deli sound good to you?"

"Um—"

"Good, I thought so too. Goodnight."

Fernando heard the phone call end and stared at his cell phone with disbelief, thoughts and questions zinging their way across his mind. Did he just get asked out on a lunch date? A real date or one of those not-really dates? And by a stranger, none-the-less. And how did he lose ten years and go from being twenty-four to fourteen in so short a time? Wait, did Martin know where he lived?

As if on cue, his phone rang again.

Fernando allowed himself to flop back down on his bed and sigh contentedly before answering the phone. It had been a while since he had felt like things were finally going his way.

i. The real Martin Škrtel played for F.C. Zenit St. Petersburg for four years before joining Liverpool.
ii. Ania is the nickname of Aleksandr Anyukov, a current Zenit defender who also played alongside Škrtel.
iii. Real-life Škrtel may or may not have a sister.

author's note: Thanks again to Greenie for the read-over and to everyone who commented on the previous part. (f you see any mistakes, feel free to point them out.

The boys are coming back.

2008-07-18T14:54:44Z

after getting over being a vegetable since my return from the asia trip, i've been writing a lot lately. just personal stories, along with fiction--including 'The Motionless Hours', which features the lads above.

will post either later today or tomorrow.

it's not as simple as a x b, or (a + c) x b

2008-06-09T19:23:06Z

Title: The Motionless Hours (I)
Disclaimer: all made up
Characters: Fernando Torres, Martin Škrtel, 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

I.
Fernando Torres liked categories. He categorized events in his life, even the ones he would rather forget (which is why he never forgets). Even as a child, trying to keep up with his older brother and sister as they raced through streets of Fuenlabrada, he was filing things away in his mental cabinet—his siblings’ likes/dislikes, what group of people they fit into, what color they would be (Israel is orange, Mari Paz is purple). He also had a very active imagination. He imagined his brother’s and sister’s futures more detailed than they did.

It came naturally to him, pairing up things that match.
1. The police man who patrols the primary school – Argentine
2. The tattoo artist who works next to the donut shop – Danish
3. The bartender at his favorite pub – Spanish Basque
4. The captain of the Liverpool football team – English Scouse

It came automatically to him, figuring out which in the group does not belong.
a. Sergio b. Real Madrid c. Spain d. Fernando

He found the library life quite suitable for him. The head librarian, Rafa, took a liking to him back in August because Fernando was Spanish too, and Rafa knew what it was like to be new in a country where people spoke a different language. Not a single book got shelved in the wrong place on Fernando’s duty. He had the number system memorized by his second day, out of fear someone would ask him where to find a biography of Winston Churchill and he would direct them the wrong way.

In the months Rafa has known him, he can say that Fernando is shy, but diligent. Cautious, but efficient. Sometimes, though, Rafa wanted to shove an astronomy book in the western section. And then keep doing it every time Fernando moved the book back. He wanted to ruffle the boy’s feathers up a bit, see how the kid would react to the horrible cycle. Or maybe just send the boy to a stripclub. God knows 24-year-old men have needs.

“So who are you backing for Euros?” Xabi asked him, setting the whiskey on the table. His red jersey for Spain advertised his own support.

“Don’t know still,” Martin said after taking a gulp. “I know who I don’t want to win. The Czechs and the French. I got in a fight with a Frenchie once, or maybe he was one of those French-Canadians, I don’t remember. There was just something about him that rubbed me the wrong way, then I might have said something I shouldn’t have said, and he said some things I didn’t like, and one thing led to another. I guess it wasn’t much of a fight ‘cause he was scampering off after one bloody nose.”

“Probably made a dent in his nose job,” Xabi commented as he began polishing glasses.

“Are you sad about England being out of it?” Martin asked, a playful glint in his eyes. “Can’t whack off to the image of sweaty Steven Gerrard scoring goals.”

Xabi shot him a scathing look, but his attention was quickly diverted.

“Hola, Fernando, ¿como te ha ido?” Xabi called out in greeting.

“Bien, ¿y tu?” Fernando answered politely. He surveyed the bar stools. There were three stools in between the man Xabi had been talking to and a trio of women chattering animatedly. He took a seat in the middle of the three stools so there would be one empty stool on each side of him. Perfect.

“Eh, así, así,” Xabi said with a shrug of his shoulders, already making Fernando’s drink. “The usual?” he asked, just in case Fernando wanted something different.

“Sí,” was the reply.

Martin scanned the man who just sat down. Roughly the same height as him. Blonde. Slender. A sea of freckles. Nice face. Looked a little reserved, but probably a screamer in bed.

“Are you from Spain?” Martin asked as an ice breaker.

Fernando turned toward him and Martin could not help but stare at his lips.

“Yes,” and there was a charming Spanish accent to boot. Fernando chewed on his bottom lip before turning away. Martin thought it was a shame. So much for ice breaker.

Unbeknownst to Martin, Fernando has already begun categorizing Martin, as he did every man or woman who tried talking to him at the pub (not that he came to the pub that often anyway. What if he turned into an alcoholic? And died of liver poisoning?). Fernando had seen the tattoos, the shaved hair, the seemingly angry curl of his lips. Somewhere in his brain, he had already begun shifting this stranger towards the Daniel Agger type.

Xabi left to take care of other customers, but not before tossing Martin a surreptitious wink over his shoulder, and a very incognito head thrust in Fernando’s direction.

Not one to give up—and with Xabi’s blessing, Martin slid to the stool next to Fernando, who tightened his grip on his glass at the move.

“I’m Martin. Škrtel,” he said, sticking his hand out in a gentlemanly fashion. Martin could be a gentleman when he wanted to be, especially if the almost permanent angry scowl on his face had not scared them off yet.

“Fernando. Torres,” the other man said, taking Martin’s hand with unmistakable caution. And you have just ruined the symmetry of the seating arrangement, Fernando wanted to add. His brain had already begun trying to find where the last name Škrtel fit. He was drawing blanks as he ran down the list of countries he knew. This would bother him for the rest of the day and he promised himself he would look it up on the Internet. Or he could just ask him. But then Martin might ask him questions about Spain and Fernando didn’t want to think about Spain, which would lead to thinking about Sergio, which—

“Do you always think this much before you say something?” Martin blurt out. Okay, so Freckles—Fernando—was cute, but cute enough for Martin to waste his time? Some part of him was already telling him a later attempt at flirting would lead nowhere.

Fernando’s eyes widened in surprise. “I—well—yes,” he stammered out. This was not good, Fernando inwardly panicked. There was probably some kind of sarcastic remark on Martin’s (very nice) lips, which Fernando would try not to take personally, and then would come his lame attempt at a joke before Fernando went home feeling like a social reject. “Where is your last name from?” he suddenly asked, before he could stop himself—no, Martin had verbally cornered him, he forced Fernando to ask.

Martin saw it then. This anxiety, something raw that broke the guard of Fernando’s eyes.

“Hey, relax,” Martin said, in such a soothing tone it surprised himself even. “That might have come off sort of rude. Sometimes I just say stuff when I first think it. Okay, a lot of times I just say stuff when I first think it.”

Fernando hated it when people (Sergio) said that. Relax. It’s no big deal. Take a chill pill. Those fucking English phrases with their fucking rhyme.

“I have somewhere to, something to, be, do,” Fernando said quickly, and his face burned at how the words came out, all jumbled, the English all fuzzy instead of crisp. “It has been a pleasure to meet you,” he added cordially before walking away.

“Slovak,” Martin yelled out. Fernando paused in his steps. “My name’s Slovakian.” Fernando filed that bit of information away before leaving.

“So, I’m guessing it didn’t go too well,” Xabi ventured when he returned to Martin with another glass of whiskey.

“How did you know?”

“Because I know. Many a men have tried and failed with that one.”

Martin scowled and said accusingly, “So what was with the wink then? You were setting me up for failure from the beginning!”

“Failure of what?” Daniel asked as he took a seat next to Martin. “Rum and pop, please. Heavy on the rum.”

“He scared Fernando off before he barely made a move,” Xabi filled in, smirking at Martin.

Martin scowled even more. “He was a looker, but I’m not going to waste any afterthought on that one. He was too awkward. I don’t have time for awkward.”

Daniel laughed. “Fernando tends to do that. Lure them in with the looks and the tight bod, then turn them off by making them feel uncomfortable.”

“No, that wasn’t it!” Martin interjected. “He was the one uncomfortable, not me!”

“Well, if your face didn’t make babies cry so much…”

“Goddamn you, Agger!”

“He’s a good kid,” Xabi said as he was wiping the table. “He’s just…a little odd. He means well. He’s living in Liverpool far away from all his family and friends in Madrid—”

“He has friends?”

“For fuck’s sakes, Škrtel,” Daniel said with the roll of his eyes. “You weren’t exactly winning him over were you? And he has friends here too. I’m one of them. Well, first I just wanted to get in his pants, but then I figured it was best if we were just friends. With no benefits, unfortunately.”

“—and it takes a while for him to warm up to new people,” Xabi continued as if he had never been interrupted.

“So how do you know him?” Martin asked.

“I was at the library—yes, Martin, I read on occasion—and he helped me find a book. He works there.”

Martin’s mouth twitched at the information.

“Where’s the library?”

“Fernando, why are you doing this?” Sergio whined for the umpteenth time. Fernando quietly ignored him, organizing his belongings into boxes (all labeled of course) and folding his clothes in a way that would take up space efficiently. Sergio did not like to be ignored.

Sergio hopped from the counter and pulled Fernando’s face in his hands, forcing him to look at him.

“Nando,” he said simply, tugging at Fernando’s ear. Suddenly, a scene flashed at lightning speed in Fernando’s mind. Sergio would draw Fernando into a passionate kiss. They would clutch at each other, exploring each other’s mouths as they made their way to the bed. Tumbling down, they would kick aside all of Fernando’s neatly folded clothes and Fernando wouldn’t give a damn. “I love you,” Fernando would gasp between the kisses, “I’ve always loved you, since we first met all those years ago, I’ve always loved you, Sergio.” Somehow, in the middle of Fernando’s declaration, his shirt had come off. Sergio, kissing a trail down to his groin, would look up then and say most seriously, “I love you too.” Sergio would then unbutton and unzip Fernando’s jeans with his teeth in perfect expertise. Fernando wouldn’t think about how many people Sergio had practiced that on. They would make sweet, beautiful love that would rock the bed and Fernando would be too deep in euphoria to feel the pain or worry about how he looked naked. In the morning, Fernando would wake up to Sergio bringing him breakfast in bed—the eggs too runny for Fernando’s liking because Sergio knew no other way cook them. After breakfast they would unpack all of Fernando’s belongings and spend the afternoon in bed, making jokes about England before Fernando, out of daring confidence, would give Sergio the best blowjob of his life, executed so perfectly Sergio would ask, “Are you sure you’ve never done this before?” It would be epic. It would be Hollywood. It would be—

Sergio rubbed Fernando’s cheek with his thumb before letting go of his face. “It’s your life,” Sergio said with a finality that made Fernando dread what he would say next. “You do what’s best for you. I hope you find what you’re searching for.”

And then Sergio was gone, leaving Fernando staring at the door that had just shut. Every part of his core prayed the door would open again and Sergio would say something more.

Someone must have heard his prayers. The door opened enough for Sergio stick his head in, shaking his long hair from his face.

“Oh, and Nando, you better call me lots when you’re in England. You know I don’t do that letter writing shit.”

The door closed again and Fernando felt his heart plummet to the depths of his stomach, a heavy weight he would carry with him to England, like a constant reminder of how life had a terribly unfunny way of giving him what he wanted.

---

author’s note: First footie fic and constructive criticism would be very helpful for improvement. Thank you to greeniebach for reading it over.

friending

2008-06-06T22:29:00Z

a journal full of (mostly) fiction & personal snippets.
non-fiction is friends locked.