Stiles bounds up the steps to his room, flings open his bedroom door and almost gets a coronary attack when he sees Derek lounging casually on his bed, book in hand, leaning against the headboard. Momentarily speechless, he stands still, backpack hanging limply from one hand.
‘Hi,’ Derek says.
Stiles waits a beat, and when he realises that that was all Derek has to say, he gets pissed. Derek hasn’t attempted to contact him in a week since- since, and that was all he has to say?
‘That’s all you have to say?’ Stiles repeats aloud, for the benefit of the idiot who could sense his emotions, but could not – thank god – read his mind or hear his thoughts.
He leaned forward, and turned his head to the side, silently gazing at Maria. His profile was thrown into sharp relief, an effect of being backlit – his eyelashes cast long shadows across his cheekbone, his one grey eye that wasn’t hidden in the shadows seeming almost colourless, his scar-
His hand flew to his cheek, as though it had just occurred to him what the light would reveal, had revealed – but Maria grabbed his fingers before they made contact with his cheek. Her fingers curled gently around his, her hand slowly tugging his down onto her lap. He wanted to resist, wanted to hide his imperfection (Imperfections, he thought, surpressing a shudder as he tried not to think about what must me going through her mind), but this was the girl he’d been in love with all his life, this was the girl who had known him before the accident, and continued to love him after despite his trying his damnedest to insist that he wasn’t the one she was looking for, that no one who looked like her should ever be with anyone who looked like him, and-
‘You don’t have to hide from me.’ she whispered, and he could feel her lean closer, resting against his side. His eyes fluttered shut, and he released the breath he didn’t know he was holding.
(Inspired by these .gifs.)
He walks across the grass, eyes scanning the crowd - he know not what for - as his feet lead him towards the direction of the team-mate he most wants to see. When he was close enough, Fernando reaches out, accepts a kiss from Sergio, and pulls him close, right arm wrapped tight around the younger man’s upper back. He closes his eyes for a heartbeat, and that one moment feels like a hundred other moments - of ‘Keep going, we’re almost there.’, of consolation, of faith and bets, of celebrations - except it isn’t.
He feels the tension in Sergio’s body, notices how his answering hug is not one of his usual strong, full-body ones; the kind that leaves Fernando breathless (because those hugs are rib-crushing, and not because of the close proximity to Sergio (although deep down Fernando is willing to admit that he knows the breathlessness is caused by a combination of the two.)). Fernando knows that a camera is trained on him, but cares not for what the world sees, or hears, or thinks it hears; and so Fernando pulls Sergio in ever closer, ever tighter, and whispers to him. Fernando then makes to let go, but he stills as Sergio’s left hand tightens on his waist, stills as he listens to Sergio’s whispered response. The younger man lets go of Fernando first before the latter is able to formulate a reply. He tries hard not to hold on to Sergio as his mind races for something, anything to say in response; but he allows Sergio to walk away, hand lingering on his back, soon falling away as the distance increases between them.
A/N: Reposting because the first time I posted this, I’d included the .gifs this fic is based on; and I found a lot of people were reblogging the post without the credit, and I never meant for that to happen…
Fernando curls his fingers around his BlackBerry, and takes a deep breath. Releases it. He scrunches his eyes tight, lips moving, uttering barely audible words: I have to talk- tell you something- You need to know this- I’ve been meaning to…
With every practised word, however, he feels his resolve dissolving.
Fernando does not call Sergio that night.
It was difficult, but he forged on, swiping at his throat (choked up with words and tears and anger) with the back of his hand. He looked back, back at the pile of things that had belonged to him, that he had once loved – books, trinkets, useless things that brought back memories - a shrivelled apple core – blackened with the passage of time – that he had saved from that one day he had spent with his brother, at Idunn’s garden.
I think love is in hugging -
not in (gentle sweeping) caresses,
not in ( sweet whispered) words,
not in (slow intimate passionate) kissing -
but in embracing,
And in the soft brush of eyelashes against temple,
and in the spot where shoulder meets neck.
Fernando stiffens at the sound. Clenches his jaw. Straightens, turns his head, and finds himself staring at his own face. On the floor, Nora rams a toy car against his left foot, skimming it across the other and then back down onto the floor. He whips his head back round, looking down at her as she glances up at his curse ('My toe!'), giggles, and grins a toothy grin at him.
No, it was pitch-black.
Fernando twisted his head to the right, but there wasn’t even a single ray of light slipping through the gap his drawn curtains surely must have left. He frowned, sighed, and went back to staring at the ceiling he couldn’t see.
That’s the end of it.
Sergio flops on top of his bed, rubbing his face, and looks up. He sees their faces instead of the plain white ceiling of his bedroom, and groans inwardly.
It’s not as if he’s dead, you idiot, he admonishes himself.
(And before he could halt his train of thoughts-) And you won’t be seeing him until the national call-ups. Even then, if you’re called up. No more late night phone calls or drives. No more breakfast, lunch, brunch. No more going over to the other’s house, just because. No more Derbi Madrileño bets. No more winning or losing or embarrassed anger or forfeits or apologies or grudges. No more forcing him to wear a Real hoodie to keep warm in the chill of the winter, no more finding Atléti scarves tucked cunningly into tiny spaces all over the house.
No more Fernando.
Word count: 153
"Step away from the ledge!", a voice cried.
"This is a balcony, not a ledge, Sergio.” Fernando shot the owner of the voice an exasperated look, and the other man grinned in response.
"And so it isn’t, but you’re looking par-" Fernando sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "-ticularly, uh. Suicidal." Sergio finished, whispering the last word. "What could have- oh, what have we here? Nora! Nora Nora Nora…"
Sergio got distracted by Fernando’s daughter bumping against his leg, and was now singing her name, each time with different inflections, lifting her high up, swinging her round and dancing around the balcony, the girl giggling with glee.
"What could have annoyed me so, was that it?" Sergio nodded without even turning his head. "Well, you and Olalla bickering about- DO NOT-" Sergio brought Nora down to his height and gave her a smacker of a kiss. "- KISS HER." Fernando growled.
Sergio had the cheek to shoot another grin at him, hugging Nora ever tighter. As Fernando continued glaring at him, Olalla appeared at the doorway, smiling softly at the three on the balcony, hand gently (unconsciously) caressing her rounded stomach. “Come on now Fer, let’s get back inside. We don’t want your princesses catching a cold,” Sergio cajoled, and winked, then tugged on Fernando’s arm, leading him towards the sliding doors, towards Olalla.
Word count: 226
A/N: I left this hanging, because I tried so many ways to end it, but wasn’t satisfied.