Work Text:
Sergio pressed his cellphone closer to his ear, listening to the cold digital hum of it ringing and praying for an answer. Yeah, Spain was an hour behind, but it was still well after midnight there. Sergio had called as soon as possible, but they’d had a late game and the flight back to Krasnodar right after, and then after that he’d needed to help the team settle back in and give them one last pep talk so that they could go to bed knowing that the battle had only just started, and they sure as hell were going to fight their best fight.
He was captain now, and he had to step up to that responsibility with everything he had. His experience captaining at Real had given him practice, but still, the national team was a whole new level. Especially now, with the tense situation surrounding Lopetegui’s sacking and Hierro’s lightning fast replacement. Having all that drama playing out on the world stage before they’d even stepped foot onto the field had created an atmosphere of stress and uncertainty when they needed to be at their strongest. Sergio knew that as captain it fell on him to get them back to being as unified and confident as possible. The coach’s relationship to the team was so important, and Sergio would never disrespect or minimize that, but at the end of the day the players were the ones on the field together, having to trust each other completely in those hundreds of split second decisions, every move they made counting towards either failure or victory. In the heat of the game, the coach could only watch from the sidelines and pray they would remember everything he’d taught them. They were the ones at the centre of all that energy and adrenaline, sharing in the sweat and tears and pain and triumph. Sergio may be captain, but he was also a player, and he knew he could his bond with the team to keep them going strong, and to remind the world that they were still La Furia Roja, coaching and management drama be damned. The complicated and often less than scrupulous business aspects of football often obfuscated the fact that it wasn’t about any of that— it was about the moment the referee’s whistle sounded and the game, that glorious game, began. Sergio prayed that he could wear the mantle of national team captain with the same dignity, resilience, and compassion that Iker had for both of Sergio’s World Cups (God, he missed him).
“...Hola?” a sleepy and decidedly grumpy voice finally answered after what felt like a hundred rings. He must have been too out of it to check the caller ID.
“Hola, mi querido,” Sergio cooed, knowing how grouchy and sour Fernando always was when he was woken up, even at a reasonable hour, which this definitely was not (really, Fernando was not a morning person at all, and was usually impossible to deal with until he’d had three cups of coffee or some dick in him). Sergio really did know better than to call him in the wee hours of the morning— but he couldn’t help it, he needed to hear his voice.
“Sergio, do you have any idea what fucking time it is?” Even if that voice was cussing him out.
“Yo se, amor, but I couldn’t sleep without talking to you first.”
“Well, you’ve made sure both of us can’t sleep now,” Fernando shot back, but he could hear the smile in his voice.
“If you were here, neither of us would be sleeping, believe me.” There was a second of silence, and Sergio could practically see Fernando doing that combination of both a scandalized blush and a knowing smirk that still made him weak in the knees, before they both laughed. Sergio couldn’t help but miss the old days when he was younger and had less responsibilities and the nights after matches were spent out on the town with the boys and then back in bed with Fernando, burning together until the sun finally came up.
“Go take a cold shower, perv,” Fernando said with a snort, and Sergio rolled his eyes, because really, they both knew who the freak was out of the two of them, and it wasn’t Sergio.
“Facetime?” Sergio asked, thinking of all the cute facial expressions Fernando was making that he was missing.
“Why? So you can keep being a dirty boy? I won’t fall for that, you know.” His voice was scolding, but fuck if there wasn’t a slight purr in it.
“No,” Sergio said with a laugh. He was far too tired for anything like that tonight. God, he really was getting older. “So I can see your face.”
Fernando didn’t say anything for a moment, but then his phone buzzed and lit up with a Facetime request. Sergio swiped to accept, and Fernando’s tired face appeared, dimly lit by the lamp on the bedside table, his short hair tousled and his eyes still bleary with sleep. Sergio felt his heart skip in that way it sometimes did when he looked at Fernando, when he was reminded viscerally of how much he adored him, and the realisation was so sharp it actually kind of hurt.
“Happy now?”
“Very,” and he hoped that Fernando could hear in his voice how much he meant it. He stretched out on the crisp sheets of the hotel bed, which was comfortable to a fault but still so cold and impersonal, and wished he was back home in their bed with that face looking at him from across the pillow. He was just thinking how cute and sleepy and inviting Fernando looked when he scrunched up his face like a very ugly baby and stuck his tongue out.
“Wow, what a stunner,” Sergio said, laughing again.
“You know it,” Fernando replied with a wink. It felt good just to joke around and laugh like this, and Sergio could feel some of the tension and stress melting out of his body.
“So, did you watch the game?” He said it casually, but in all truthfulness it was a loaded subject, and the furthest thing from casual. Fernando hadn’t made the cut this time around, and it was the first time in twelve years that La Roja had played without El Nino. It was partly due to his club performance and partly due to his attitude on the subject, but really, Fernando was just getting older and this was how the game went. Sergio was under no delusions that he’d have another World Cup after this one. You only had so many days under the sun. He wasn’t bothered— the afterglow of a successful career lasted a long time, and for him, the glory of South Africa would burn for a lifetime. But Fernando had had a more complicated relationship with the national team, and to anyone who would listen he would profess that he’d had no interest in being in Russia this year and hadn’t felt like part of that scene for a long time.
There was truth to that, but Sergio also knew that Fernando remembered those days as well, that he remembered all the passion and the fight and the drive and the soaring heights and crashing lows just as vividly as he did, and he was sad that those experiences had been tarnished for him. Indifference was Fernando’s favourite way of masking his hurt, and there certainly was hurt surrounding his absence from the World Cup. It hurt so much because he cared so much, and so he had to act like he didn’t care at all. Even in front of Sergio. Whether to save face or to stop Sergio from feeling guilty, he didn’t know. Reckless pride and surprisingly acute sensitivity— Fernando had both of those in spades, and they were equally part of him. Sergio couldn’t imagine him any other way, and he loved him for it. Sometimes Sergio wished he could just be less goddamn stubborn.
Fernando was in many ways a far better player than Sergio would ever be— Sergio was reliable and steady, sure, but Fernando had that true element of star power, that extra spark of brilliance and fire that had made him a household name across the world. But he was also mulish and God knew how difficult he could be, and his obstinacy had certainly added conflict and strife to his career that it might have been better off without. But none of this was Sergio’s place to say. After all, Fernando had made his debut on the world stage years before Sergio, had gone through a World Cup already by the time they went to South Africa together. Fernando’s career was his own journey, and Sergio would never know the whole story or understand exactly how Fernando had experienced and felt things or why he’d made the choices, good and bad and in between, that he did. All he could was love him, and know how lucky he was to have watched first hand the marvelous spark of one of the greatest Spanish strikers to have graced the pitch.
“Of course I watched it,” Fernando said simply. “You were in it.” Something that had been tight and anxious in his chest loosened at the words. He’d been so afraid that the bitterness and resentment about the situation might leak over into their relationship, and that Fernando might even have animosity or envy towards him for being there. He felt ashamed now that he’d jumped to paranoid assumptions. He knew him better than that. Fernando had a generous heart with an endless willingness to forgive those who he knew loved him and were truly loyal to him- as Sergio was, as he’d proved himself time and time again.
“Fucking Ronaldo,” Sergio swore. “It’s the only time I’m not happy to see him score a hat trick.”
“Hey, he wins so many La Liga titles for you Madridistas, you can’t be that salty.”
“I can and I will be,” Sergio huffed. “Why couldn’t he just have been born a Spaniard? Then he really would be perfect.”
“Cris would say he already is,” Fernando said with a laugh.
“‘Course he would,” Sergio responded, rolling his eyes. That man had enough ego to put Narcissus to shame. It could get a little ridiculous, but at the same time, it was definitely part of what fuelled his greatness.
“How is he doing, by the way?” Sergio knew by his tone that he was referring to the trial outcome.
“I don’t really know, to be honest,” he replied. “I haven’t seen much of him since the end of club season.” Well, he had seen him for 90 minutes plus four minutes penalty time on the pitch earlier that day, but that wasn’t exactly the right setting to be having heart-to-hearts about two-year probation prison sentences. Indeed, Sergio didn’t expect to be having any friendly little chats anytime soon. Cristiano was here for Portugal now, not Madrid, and his head was entirely in the game. When he was your teammate, Cris was one hell of a teammate, but there was no mistaking he was here to play great football, not to make friends. Sergio wasn’t bothered— that was all part of what made him who he was, and besides, Sergio already had a favourite striker. “I mean, if anyone can cover an eighteen-million euro fine, he can,” Sergio continued. “Trust me, he’s Cristiano Ronaldo. He’ll be fine. Maybe he’ll start paying his fucking taxes.” Fernando laughed; the best of sounds.
“Financial matters aside, that was some damn good playing from him today.”
“I know,” Sergio groaned. “I swear to God I wanted to strangle Gerard— if you’re going to foul anyone, don’t fucking foul Ronaldo.” Sergio had been irritated, but they all fucked up sometimes, and he was more than glad to have Gerard beside him at this World Cup— they debuted at FIFA together and they would finish it together.
“You guys played well too, and you know I’m not just saying that. You kept up the possession, and the passing was really flowing. You’re off to a fine start.”
“We have a strong base to work with,” Sergio agreed. “We can definitely keep tightening things up and improving and play even better.” Solid playing wasn’t enough, even though it was a good foundation. They’d need some real flashes of genius if they wanted a repeat of World Cup victory. But Sergio knew they had to take it day by day, and that grounded realism was always better than false hubris.
“You’re the most hardworking and dedicated man I know,” Fernando said after a pause. “There could be no better captain.” Fernando gazed at him unblinkingly through the screen, so intently that Sergio felt like he was right there looking at him instead of thousands of miles away. “I’m so proud of you, Sergio, you know that, right? I’ve always been so goddamn proud of you.” Sergio couldn’t speak for a moment— his heart was in his throat and he felt tears stinging at the back of his eyes. To hear those words from him meant more than he’d ever know, meant more than trophies and titles and fallible glory.
“Nothing makes me prouder than being yours,” he replied, trying to find the words for all the feelings rushing through him.
“Always mine,” Fernando said. “And no trading or substituting allowed.” Sergio grinned, because it was true. As much as he loved football, the business around it could be mercilessly cutthroat. You could bond with your teammate so much during a championship, and feel like the closest thing to family, and then next season he could be gone, signed over to another team for a bigger paycheque or axed for not keeping up with the cut. Loyalties got twisted and greed came to the forefront and eventually it became about everything other than football. You tried your best to be true to your club and especially to your country, but it was hard not to let yourself become jaded and find yourself mainly just looking out for number one. But what he and Fernando had was something else. Sure, they’d found their love for each other through football, but it went beyond that now too, and nothing that happened in either of their careers could ever change that. Sergio had forgotten that for a minute, and to be reassured of just how solid this thing between them was felt like the comfort of coming back home, even when they were so far apart from each other.
“Fernando,” he said quickly, before he could back out. “Would you think about coming over and watching a match?” There was a long silence, and Fernando’s expression was inscrutable. He might’ve gone too far, but right now he didn’t care- he needed him by his side so badly.
“Maybe,” he finally said, and his voice sounded hesitant, but for Sergio it was enough. He knew it was a lot to ask of him, and the fact that he was willing to consider it was major. This had been a big deal, and he knew he couldn’t push him, and that it would take time. That was okay. They had the rest of their lives to figure it out.
“Thank you.” The sober look in Fernando’s eyes suddenly turned impish.
“But you better make it to at least the semi-finals or don’t even bother wasting my time.” Sergio burst out laughing.
“Okay, I’ll try my best,” he replied. “Just for you.”
“Speaking of my wasting my time, I need to get back to my beauty sleep.”
“Yeah, God knows you really need every minute of it.”
“Shut up. You worship me.”
“I really do.”
“I know. Goodnight, idiot.”
“Goodnight, beautiful.” The connection ended and the video clicked off, and Sergio stripped off and climbed into bed, with a foolish smile still on his face. The anxiety and pressure he’d been feeling had faded away, replaced with a truth that was deeper than the result of the next few months. He was going to try his very best at this FIFA and give it his all, but no matter what happened, he would walk away a winner, because he was going back home to Fernando. Once the thought of his career winding down had terrified him, but now he looked forward to it as a still distant but enjoyable prospect, when he’d finally have all the time in the world to just focus on building their lives together. Maybe they’d finally tell everyone the truth. He knew the world was changing. Even here in autocratic Russia, he could feel it— the people wanted change.
Tomorrow he’d wake up and his mind would be entirely in the present and focused on what he needed to do to give Spain its best shot at the Cup, but that night, as he fell asleep, his thoughts drifted back to eight years ago. He could see it clear as day, like he was still right there standing on the pitch, helping to lift up the trophy, the crowd’s cheers deafening his ears. In the middle of all the noise and fanfare he’d looked across at Fernando, who’d caught his gaze and grinned back, his eyes impossibly full— the perfect moment, forever theirs.