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It starts out like a fairytale. It starts out like this: once upon a time, there was a boy who would be king. And everybody would love him and he would love them, he would do everything in his power to make them proud, to make sure they knew how much he loved them, that disappointing them hurt more than anything he had ever known. The city would raise him and groom him, their golden child, their hope for the future. Once upon a time, a city thrust a boy into the spotlight, put a crown upon his golden head and told him that he was theirs, and they would love him more fiercely than they had ever loved another. And he loved them, he bled for them. He was their warrior prince, shedding his blood and sweat and tears all for them, to bring them glory, to bring them out of the shadow of a colossus. And he tried, oh god did he try, until his muscles and bones ached, until he felt there was nothing left he could give them, nothing left he could do. He had failed them, he thought, maybe he wasn't their savior after all. But time after time the city would pick him back up again, tell him you are ours and we will always love you, fight for us. We believe in you. And time after time, he would get back up, he would lead the charge, he would remind them all why he was their golden child, their boy king.
There was a girl he loved. He loved her like he had never loved anything before, more than the city, more than the warm sun burning into his skin, more than the sweet smell of freshly cut grass underneath his feet. He loved her for her tenderness, for her smile and for how he was never a king with her, just a boy, just a boy in love with a girl. Being in love with her was like loving a better version of himself, shy and reserved, but sweet and welcoming. She wasn't like the other boy's girlfriends, the ones that wanted to be out every night, the ones who thought parties and expensive clothes and jewels and dinners made life. He loved her for the fact that she would stay home with him, that he could open up to her, that she understood his every look, his every intention. She was another extension of himself and he knew then that he didn't want to spend his life without her, that she was going to be by his side for the rest of his life. she gave him strength, enough to take on the world every day. In his eyes, she was perfect. She was everything.
There was a boy he loved too. He never meant for it to happen, neither of them did. Neither were sure how exactly it happened, although Sergio would always tell him it was the first minute he saw him. Sergio would always tell him how impossible it is to not fall in love with Fernando Torres, that they were destined to be something beautiful and something tragic, because a good love story is never one that has a happy ending. Fernando would agree with him, but it was never first sight with him. He was blinded by jealousy, that this kid with a blindingly bright smile was breaking his record of being the youngest on the team, that he was always sunny and happy and warm, everything Fernando never could be naturally. But it's impossible not to fall in love with Sergio Ramos, and Fernando finds that out fast enough. It's impossible to not smile when he smiles at you, when everything about him is summery and warm and to Fernando he always smells like freshly cut grass and warm breezes and his eyes are a kind of melted chocolate fernando wants to drown in. They don't acknowledge it, neither of them own up to the fluttering in their stomachs and the way it feels electric when they touch, neither of them is man enough to admit to feeling sick for days after they part from national duty, knowing they won't see each other again until the next one, or until they're forced to face one another on the pitch.
It's on national duty when Sergio gets the life changing call, that agreements were made and his city, the one that loved him and nurtured him and made him who he was, was letting him go, letting him move on to a bigger brighter future. And after the phone calls to his family he's at Fernando's door, attacking him in a strong hug and telling him the deal has been made, that he's coming to Madrid. At first, Fernando's heart skips beats, his stomach drops, because Sergio is going to be his, he thinks, Sergio's going to look so good in that red and white and they'll take the pitch together, the king will have his knight and they will be loved by all. He will be Arthur and Sergio will be Lancelot, and they will take on anything, they will be unstoppable together. It's only when Sergio points out how happy he is to be finally playing at a club like Real that Fernando realizes those dreams are dashed, that the sick feeling returns to his stomach and his throat closes, that his red and white knight never was, just a white one. And Sergio pretends not to see the disappointment in Fernando's face, in those sweet brown eyes, and not to hear the hard edge in Fernando's voice when he laughs that he had better watch out in the Madrid derby. The night doesn't go as Sergio hoped, not when Fernando feigns exhaustion and kicks him out with another softer congratulations and the smile, the real smile that makes Sergio's knees weak with his dimples and his laugh lines, but he knows the two of them will grow stronger from this, that being in the same city will change everything, that he won't ache as much anymore.
In Madrid, Sergio learns. He learns what Fernando means to the city, that he is their king, that he is their pride and joy, their hope. He never understood it before, that he meant something to them, but it was nothing like seeing it. The city was in love with this golden child, much like he was, but they didn't understand Fernando the way he did. They see what Fernando shows them, the polite boy, the soft spoken king of their hearts. They love him for his shyness, want to peel back his layers and open him up, to cover him in their admiration at all times. They want to know what he is doing, what he is eating, who he is wearing, what music he is listening to. What Sergio learns is different from the public. What Sergio sees is a boy who never grew up, who peaked at a young age when the crown was lifted upon his head, when the weight was thrust upon his shoulders. He sees someone sharp and sarcastic, someone worldly but jaded. He alone learns the toll that being Atleti's savior takes on Fernando. He learns that the older boy would rather stay home and play fifa or read books than go out, that he's too scared of looking like a drunken mess in public, paranoid of cameras everywhere. He learns that the shyness isn't an act, that he always tastes a little sweet, that he eats like a starved person seeing food for the first time. He learns that when he blushes, his entire face turns red behind the smattering of freckles, that he has those little marks everywhere. He learns that Fernando is a hard person to open up, that he stays guarded and tense even with Sergio, even when Sergio does nothing but try to loosen him up. He eventually learns that his thighs are his ultimate weakness, that touching them, kissing them, sucking them, will open Fernando up, will turn him into a mess of bucking hips and desperate pleas, learns how Fernando loves to bury his nose in his hair, to whimper his moans and pleading cries into Sergio's ear as he cums. He learns how pliant Fernando is, how flexible he is, how good he looks and feels when he's being fucked into the mattress or the couch or the wall or on the kitchen table. He learns that Fernando's ears flush red when he's sucking cock, that he loves having his hair pulled, that if he absolutely has to be held during the night then he has to be the little spoon otherwise he'll complain about not being able to breathe. He learns Fernando has that problem a lot, the not being able to breathe thing, that he feels suffocated in the city because of the pressure, because of the heat, because his love for Madrid is waning as he continues to fail to give Atletico more. He learns Fernando always wants more, he learns that nothing is ever enough for him on it's own. He pushes harder, holds tighter, but it's never enough, like Europa league is never enough for the boy king who dreams of champion's league trophies and league titles.
Sergio feels like he should have learned better when he hears the news that Fernando is transferring to Liverpool.
Fernando doesn't tell Sergio he's leaving Madrid. Sergio understands, knows how these things go, that you don't talk about them until the deal is done. It cuts him like a knife to know that Fernando is leaving though, that Fernando is too busy to call him after his press conferences after he's displayed as Liverpool's new number nine. It kills him to know why, that the last time they spoke was a fight, that he could just open up the lines of communication and call him, tell Fernando he's proud of him, that he'll miss him, to beg him not to go to England where it's cold and rains all the time and people don't speak spanish. Where he isn't. But he doesn't, just replays the fight in his head, and he knows that for now, Fernando is lost to him.
(The fight goes: after the 6-1 loss to Barcelona, Sergio just wants to make him feel better. He knows he's losing Fernando, everything is becoming too much, Madrid is going to lose him, Sergio is going to lose him. He holds him, tells him sweet words, kisses the skin of his neck, lets him cry, lets him get it all out. It's just an aside, a joke really, when he suggests quietly to him that Fernando could play for Real, stay in the city and win the titles he had always dreamed of, where they could do it together. It's Sergio's dream and Fernando crushes it with an angry look, with angry words.
"And what, be a galactico?" The word has never sounded so dirty until Fernando spits it out at him, lips curled in a sneer as he pushes back the sheets, Sergio just lying prone and watching the pale lithe body in the moonlight filtering in through the window, watching him rummage around for the clothes they had so carelessly scattered around the room on their way in. This is the Fernando almost no one knows, the Fernando that has been broken by the pressures of his crown, of his obligations to the city. "I would never play for them and you know that, Sergio. It's like being a whore, you're bought and paid for. All those titles are paid for, all those players are taken away from clubs that needed them, that could have brought them titles and glory. No, Sergio, I will never be a madridista, I will never be a blanco, I will never be a galactico." And the words are out of his mouth before he realizes who he's talking to, before he remembers this isn't Sergio from Sevilla, this is Sergio from Real Madrid, this is his best friend on his rival team, and Fernando is quiet but not entirely apologetic as he finishes getting dressed, leaving Sergio in a rare stunned silence. He only turns to face him before he leaves, his face softer and sadder. "I'll call you." he whispers and Sergio rolls over onto his stomach, unwilling to face him after the attack, and that is the last time they speak before Fernando moves to England.)
But Sergio, like the city of Madrid, like all the Atleti fans, knows it's just a waiting game. Once upon a time, there was a boy who would be king, but he had to grow up first. So they let him go, let him find the places he needed to be, because they loved him too much. There was always Spain, euros and world cups to win, to be their hero, their golden child. They had always known of his love for him, that it would never change, that Madrid, that Sergio, would always be home.
It goes like this: once upon a time, there was a boy who would be king. His crown was too heavy in Madrid, the weight too heavy to carry on his own, so he embarked to another country, to another city who was willing to make him their king. He didn't have the heart to tell him he wasn't theirs to claim, but he fell in love with them anyway. They were like him, quiet and hard working, in love with his skills and talent, and they didn't put the pressure all on him. There were other soldiers, other princes, other warriors, other kings to carry the weight, to help him reach far and beyond the potential he thought he had. In this country, in this city, he was finally happy. He ached at night sometimes, when he thought of the things he missed in Madrid, his family, his friends, Sergio. He misses the Calderon, the way the air is thick and warm rather than cold and wet. But the things he misses are worthy sacrifices, he thinks anyway, because he's finally at a place where his dreams can come true. And Liverpool loves him, like Madrid loved him, but more respectfully. They leave him have his space, but they worship him at the kop, at Anfield, at Melwood. And he bleeds for them, he cries for them, he does everything he can for them, to make their dreams come true, to lift that silverware. He comes closer than he ever thought possible to his dreams, but falls short every time, never manages to make that realization come true. He grows up in Liverpool, becomes the kind of man he thinks he's proud to be. He returns to Spain and feels like a tourist, like more years have passed between Madrid and Liverpool than really have. But Spain brings him the silverware he dreamed of, the European cup where it was because of him, because he had that lucky shot, the game winning goal. And nobody has ever loved him more than Sergio loves him in that moment, and there is no one Fernando wants to celebrate this with more than him. And Madrid is overjoyed because their king has proved his worth, and Liverpool is overjoyed because they want to claim him as theirs, that their new king is capable of great things.
He returns to Liverpool a champion, but fails to deliver them the results they want from him. He gets hurt, there is talk of his career being over, mostly that he needs to stop pretending he's not injured when he's on the pitch. He tries to explain it's just that he needs to give every game his all, he needs the result, he needs to win trophies at a club level. People depend on him, he is their king, the pressure lies upon his shoulders. They try to tell him that it doesn't, that this isn't Madrid, but it happens again, the same as Madrid. And he gets injured worse than before, to the point that he needs surgery. But like any true warrior he refuses to take it lying down, he knows what he can do, will do. He thinks maybe he will never lift the champion's league trophy, but he could lift the world cup trophy, he could hold that beautiful piece of gold in his hands and know it was partially because of him, that he could still be Madrid's, Spain's, golden boy. So he takes risks, tells them to take all the cartilage from his knee if they have to, but he's playing, he's going to be there, be an active participant, because nothing else matters in his short sights, just that golden trophy, held by a golden child. He pretends that Liverpool isn't being run into the ground, he tries not to argue when the doctors tell him he's fit when he doesn't feel it. He wants to do right by Liverpool, but his sights are with Spain, and he barely makes it to the summer, barely makes it back to Spain to be with the people who haven't let him down and disillusioned him. (He tries not to think of the Confederation's Cup, really, they all do.)
The story goes like this: the wounded prince does battle in one of the grandest stages of the world. He is ineffectual and his pride is hurt and he winds up injured in the final battle, but his army wins the war. Sergio celebrates with him because he is loved, he is always loved, will always be loved, by the Sevillian. He lifts the golden trophy when it's his turn and he feels like he is going to burst with pride in those moments because he was there, he did what he could do to help them get to this point, because he loves this team, this country, more than he could ever explain to anyone, because he is a part of greatness and that was all he ever wanted. He only dwells on the thoughts of having done nothing months later, when he feels like he is drowning, suffocating, in Liverpool. But in July of 2010, Fernando Torres is a king among kings, and he is the happiest he has ever been.
The story follows: everything turns to shit. He blames himself sometimes for not doing more, but everyone begins to question his loyalty. He can't tell them the truth, that he was never really theirs, he always belonged to Madrid, he was just there to make his dreams come true. When it seems like they are impossible, when Liverpool is at the bottom of the table, Fernando blames himself. He is miserable, he is wounded, how did he go from being a champion of the world to this? He blames the team, for not doing more to help him, for once being one of the best teams in the world, a team he was proud of, to this floundering mess. He blames Roy, he blames Stevie, he blames Carra. He hates them for questioning his loyalty, for not helping him prove to everyone he loves Liverpool, that it's become home to him, he hates them for making it not feel like home, for making it feel worse than Madrid ever felt, because at least in Madrid no one made him feel terrible for trying. He hates himself for starting to resent the club, for wanting to leave the city that he felt immediately at home in, where his son was born. He hates that he is disillusioned and on a cold day at the end of January he leaves them, he breaks their hearts. He tosses them the crown they placed upon his golden head and he tells them where to stick it, because they ruined his dreams, and dreams were all he ever really had.
And so it goes: once upon a time, a man drowned in London. He wins a couple of trophies, the ones he thought he meant sacrificing his integrity for. He thinks, I'll be happy here, I'll achieve my dreams here. And he does, but those victories feel hollow, because London would never feel like home. in London he is just a man, and he is peaceful, but he misses the weight on his shoulders, he misses feeling loved. He can show his children videos, Nora, your father helped win the premier league, Leo, your father helped win the champion's league, look at those goals, kids, look at what your father accomplished. He lasts two and a half years in London, and in the summer after he turns 30, Fernando Torres returns home.
It ends like this: once upon a time, a king returned home. A city rejoiced, a city taunted him.
It starts like this: a young boy is brought to watch a game by his grandfather. He falls in love with the Calderon and the Calderon claims him as one of their own.
It ends like this: he takes his first step out onto the pitch in the red and white he has always loved, always lived and breathed. He has done this before as a boy, but returns to them a man who has lived his dreams, who has won everything and lost everything, who is finally ready to be their king. He hears the announcers call his name, say the words that rung in his ears as a child - Fernando Torres, Atleti's number nine. He is home and the people rejoice, their king has returned. Long live the king.