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The first text he gets is just the name of a hotel and a room number. The second reads :( im benched ;) and Fernando knows exactly what it means. He laughs, because it’s impossible not to when Sergio is purposely doing things to make him smile. It’s a good feeling to go into the match, that once he finally scores he can celebrate with the person he wants to celebrate with most. He’s confident that he will, there’s no thought in his mind that they can’t come back from the 1-0 loss back at Stamford Bridge, he’s dominated at Old Trafford before, there’s no reason he can’t tonight. Sure he’s been shit at finishing lately, but he can feel the energy coursing through him, he can feel that tonight is the night that things are going to change, that he’ll score his first Chelsea goal, that they’ll make it through to the semis of the Champion’s League and maybe he’ll finally get the trophy he craves so much.
He only plays the first half and it’s terrible. There’s no saying that the team isn’t trying, but they’re just not up to par somehow, the pitch is too slippery and he can’t get any control on the ball, he just can’t find a way to finish, it’s a mess, and it’s horrible and he’s subbed off for the second half and his heart is in his throat. He watches his team lose and it hurts, because there are rumors of his future in jeopardy and all he wants is that trophy. It’s why he’s here, it’s what he’s sacrificing for, when all he wants is to go back to Madrid and play in that red and white that feels like home.
He doesn’t say much on the trip back to London. Nobody really says much, it’s a crushing blow to be taken out of the one thing you really want more than anything, and everybody feels it, exchanges heartless goodbyes at the training ground and heads off to drown their sorrows in their own ways. Fernando texts his wife with ill be home late and lets her assume what she wants, that he’s gone drinking with the boys to try and numb the pain or the truth, that Sergio’s in town and he needs him more than he needs anyone else at the moment. All his movements are automatic, his mind in a fog as he makes his way through the large city, through the dense traffic to the hotel he memorized on the ride home. He barely remembers the ride by the time he reaches the hotel, hands over the keys to the aston martin to valet and doesn’t care that he’s still in the club suit, that he’s walking into enemy territory. His eyes are dull and he can feel his heart pumping in his chest, aching with every beat.
Nobody stops him on the way to the elevator and Fernando likes to think he’s good at being unseen when he wants to be. In reality, everyone is busy, too busy to pay attention to him, trying to do their jobs and make a living and Fernando feels a pang of guilt when he sees them all, because he’s getting paid more than most of these people make in a year and he can’t even do his job. He keeps to himself in the elevator and stops at the floor, slips by security unnoticed because they don’t look at the crest on his suit, don’t look at his face to realize he’s Fernando Torres and he’ll never be a Real Madrid player. He knocks on the door of the room number Sergio gave him, and waits, eyes unfocused and lost in thought. The door opens, but it’s Iker who opens it, looking not at all surprised to see Fernando at the door.
“Hey.” His voice is quiet like he knows exactly how Fernando is feeling, because the truth is, he does know. Fernando’s even been the one scoring on him to put him there before, but it’s not the moment to criticize him or say anything, just offers him a small hug and a light pat on the back, letting Fernando continue on his way. He watches the two of them from the doorway, Sergio not moving from his spot on the bed but his eyes never leaving Fernando’s face. They know each other so well, that they don’t have to think about what they’re doing; Fernando’s just slipping off the suit jacket and dropping it on the floor, a sad sort of strip show that is too depressing to be anywhere near sexy. Fernando’s just shedding the suit like it’s an ill fitting second skin, like if he doesn’t get out of this he’s never going to feel comfortable again. He’s down to his briefs before he finally drops down onto the bed, and Sergio’s lifting up the blankets, getting under them with Fernando and letting the older man curl into his body, fingers gripping the soft cotton of his t-shirt tightly, face buried in his neck. Iker knows it’s time to leave them be, this intimate moment isn’t for his eyes to witness and he waves a goodbye to Sergio but the younger man isn’t paying any attention to him, just burying his face in Fernando’s hair, being every bit of comfort he needs for the moment. The door clicks closed behind him but neither of the men on the bed looks up, lost in their own little orbit.
Fernando doesn’t cry. He knows he should, that Sergio will never make fun of him for it, but still he fights it, keeps his watering eyes squeezed shut and clenches his trembling chin and refuses to break, despite the Sevillian’s attempts to make him. Sergio knows what Fernando needs because he knows him better than anyone in the world. They lay there together in silence for a few moments, seconds or minutes or hours they’re not really sure, but Fernando is breaking underneath Sergio’s touch, from the fingers in his hair and the lips pressing soft kisses into his scalp and on his forehead. He lets a few tears squeeze out before he finally feels like he can breathe again, lifting his head from Sergio’s neck to finally meet his eyes. They stare together, two different shades of brown, hurt and loving and broken and strong, but its home for both of them, a safe haven.
“Sergio...” Fernando starts but Sergio cuts him off.
“I know.” And he does know, he knows it all too well. He knows that once Fernando is calm again he’ll be putting back his carefully built walls and whatever chance they had tonight of making the best of being in the same city will have to be put on hold for the time being. He knows maybe there’s a chance for tomorrow, that there are slim odds he could be the one with his hopes and dreams crushed like Fernando’s are tonight, or that he could be celebrating their next round victory, could be hearing Fernando’s slightly evil laughter about him having to face Barcelona four times in two and a half weeks. He knows Fernando wants the best for him but wants his team to lose, that he’s torn between two different parts of his heart, the half that loves Sergio so much it hurts, and the half that is that boy from Fuenlabrada that lives and breathes Atletico. Sergio loves both halves even though both halves will never meet and love him entirely. It weighs heavy in his chest, like it always does when he looks at Fernando and really thinks about him, stops pretending that maybe one day there’s a future there. But he likes being the one the older man turns to, the person he comes to when he just needs to be broken, the one who can fix him. So Sergio smiles and it’s brilliant and white and bright and Fernando can’t help but smile too, not as bright, but Sergio’s at least brought out his dimples, and it just makes him smile wider because he can’t ever look at him and not think he is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. “You cut your hair.” He points out, slides his fingers through it, messes it up a little.
“Yeah. Couple of days ago.”
“You look like a twelve year old.” Sergio grins and for the first time all night Fernando grins back, balls his hand into a fist and punches Sergio in the shoulder. Not hard, but enough to make a point. “Punch like one too.” Sergio thinks, maybe the night is salvageable after all.