Work Text:
The training ground smelled like cut grass and early sun. Luka arrived fifteen minutes early, as he always did, and found Sergio already there, sitting on the low wall near the entrance with two coffees and a grin that still somehow managed to look like trouble even after all these years.
“You’re late,” Sergio said, handing him the cup marked with a little L in black marker.
“I’m early.”
“You’re late for me.” Sergio leaned in, pressed a quick, warm kiss to the corner of Luka’s mouth, then another to the other corner just because he could. “I missed you for seven hours. That’s criminal.”
Luka rolled his eyes, but the smile he tried to hide was soft. “You slept in my bed until six-thirty.”
“And then I had to leave. Torture.” Sergio’s hand stayed on the back of Luka’s neck, thumb stroking slow circles under the collar of his training top. The kind of casual possessiveness that had stopped being subtle months ago. The rest of the squad had long since given up commenting. Casemiro just muttered “married already” under his breath every time he walked past them.
They walked onto the pitch together, shoulders brushing. Sergio kept finding excuses—adjusting Luka’s shin pads, tugging the hem of his shirt straight, murmuring something about the angle of his left foot during the warm-up that was only half coaching and half an excuse to stay close. Luka let him. He always let him. Being the centre of Sergio Ramos’s single-minded attention was still the best part of most days.
Practice started the way it always did: dynamic stretches, passing circuits, small-sided games. Sergio played like he lived—loud, physical, laughing when he won the ball, scowling theatrically when someone dared to try the same on him. Luka moved quieter, precise, already thinking three passes ahead. Every time their paths crossed, Sergio found a way to touch him: a clap on the shoulder, a brief forearm slide, a shared look that said later.
It was ordinary. It was perfect.
Then the gates opened and Fernando Torres walked through.
He wasn’t in kit. Just dark trousers, a simple polo, sunglasses pushed up into his hair. He moved like a man who still belonged on a pitch even if he no longer played every week. A few of the younger players straightened. Zidane lifted a hand in greeting. Sergio turned, and for half a second his expression flickered—surprise, then something cooler, then the polite professional smile he used for people who used to matter more than they did now.
Luka felt it before he understood it: the small shift in the air.
Torres came over during a water break. He greeted the staff first, then the players closest to him, and finally stopped in front of Sergio.
“Ramos.” His voice was easy. Warm. “You look… different.”
Sergio wiped the back of his wrist across his mouth. “Older. That’s what happens.”
“No.” Torres’s gaze moved over him—shoulders, posture, the way Sergio stood half a step closer to Luka than necessary. “Calmer. Happier, maybe.” A small smile. “It suits you.”
Luka stayed quiet. He took a long drink from his bottle and pretended the water tasted the same as it had five minutes ago.
Sergio shrugged. “Life’s good.”
“I can see that.” Torres’s eyes flicked, just once, to Luka, then back. “I was in the area. Thought I’d say hello. Maybe watch a session. If no one minds.”
No one minded. Zidane waved him toward the sideline. Torres stayed.
The second half of training felt longer than usual. Every time Luka glanced over, Torres was still there, arms folded, watching. Sometimes his attention stayed on the whole group. Sometimes it lingered on Sergio a beat too long—the way he organised the back line, the way he celebrated a goal with the same old fire, the way he drifted back toward Luka between drills like gravity had a preferred direction.
During a rondo, Torres called something out. Encouragement, light and familiar. Sergio answered without looking, but the sound of his name in that particular voice made Luka’s next pass a fraction late. Marcelo raised an eyebrow. Luka shook his head once. Nothing.
By the time they finished, the sun was higher and Luka’s shirt stuck to his back. He walked toward the tunnel with the others. Sergio fell into step beside him, as always, hand brushing the small of Luka’s back in a gesture so automatic neither of them thought about it.
Torres appeared again near the entrance.
“Good session,” he said. “You still defend like you hate the idea of anyone scoring.”
Sergio huffed a quiet laugh. “Some things don’t change.”
“Some things do.” Torres’s smile was softer now. “It’s good to see you like this. Really. If you’re free later—coffee, or just a catch-up—I’d like that. No pressure.”
The invitation hung there, light as anything. Polite. Almost nothing.
Sergio opened his mouth, but Luka was already moving past them, murmuring something about needing to stretch properly. He didn’t wait for an answer.
In the changing room Luka sat on the bench and unlaced his boots with more attention than the task required. Sergio appeared a minute later, still half-dressed, towel around his neck.
“Hey.” He crouched in front of Luka, hands resting on Luka’s knees. “You disappeared.”
“I didn’t.”
Sergio studied his face the way he studied opposing forwards—carefully, looking for the small tells. “You’re quiet.”
“I’m always quiet.”
“Not with me.” Sergio’s thumbs stroked once over the fabric of Luka’s shorts. “Talk to me.”
Luka looked at the floor between them. The words felt stupid even before he said them. “He still looks at you like he used to.”
Sergio went still.
“I know it’s nothing,” Luka continued, voice low. “I know. But he noticed how you’ve changed and he… liked it. And you answered him. And I—” He stopped. Rubbed a hand over his face. “It’s ridiculous. Forget it.”
Sergio didn’t move for several seconds. Then he laughed—quiet, disbelieving, almost delighted.
Luka’s head snapped up. “What.”
“You’re jealous.” Sergio’s eyes were bright with something that looked dangerously close to fond amusement. “You’re actually jealous. Of Torres.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” Sergio stood, pulled Luka up with him, and crowded him back against the lockers with the kind of casual strength that always made Luka’s pulse jump. The changing room had mostly emptied; the few remaining players took one look and decided the corridor was suddenly very interesting. “Luka. Look at me.”
Luka looked.
“I have spent the last year and a half being the one who gets jealous,” Sergio said, still smiling like the universe had handed him the best joke of the week. “When that journalist spent too long asking you about your free-kicks. When Kroos keeps stealing your headphones. When you smile at the ball boy for longer than three seconds. Me. Always me. And now you—” He shook his head, laughing under his breath. “You think I’d look at Fernando Torres for even half a second when you’re standing right here?”
“He was your—”
“He was. Past tense. Very past.” Sergio’s hands framed Luka’s face, thumbs brushing the high points of his cheekbones. “I didn’t even think about him until he walked through the gate. And the second he started talking I was already counting the minutes until I could get back to you. That’s how it works now. That’s how it’s been since the first time you let me kiss you in the car park after that night game in Valencia.”
Luka’s throat felt tight. “You never said you noticed I was… off.”
“Because it never occurred to me that you would doubt it.” Sergio’s voice dropped, soft and fierce at the same time. “I’m the obsessive one, remember? The one who texts you three times on the short bus rides. The one who steals your hoodies and then complains when they stop smelling like you. The one who nearly started a fight with a physio last month because he had his hands on your hamstring for too long. Me. Not you. You’re the calm one. The sure one.” He leaned in until their foreheads touched. “I didn’t know you could feel like that about me. It’s… kind of adorable. And a little bit insulting to my honour, but mostly adorable.”
Luka let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “You’re impossible.”
“And completely yours.” Sergio kissed him—slow, thorough, the kind of kiss that left no room for residual doubt. When he pulled back he was still smiling. “Torres can have his coffee. Alone. Or with someone else. I already have plans. They involve you, my flat, and the fact that I am going to spend the next several hours reminding you exactly how little interest I have in anyone who isn’t Luka Modrić.”
Luka’s hands had found the front of Sergio’s shirt. He didn’t let go. “You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.” Sergio’s grin turned wicked. “It’s nice not being the only dramatic one for once.”
“I’m not dramatic.”
“You went quiet and walked away and looked like someone had stolen your favourite midfield tempo. That’s dramatic for you.” Sergio kissed the tip of his nose, then the corner of his mouth again. “Come on. Shower. Then home. I’m going to be clingy about it. Extremely. You’re not allowed to complain.”
Luka exhaled, the last of the cold feeling finally loosening. “I never complain about that.”
“I know.” Sergio’s expression softened into something almost reverent. “That’s why I do it.”
They left the training ground together the way they always did—shoulders touching, Sergio’s arm draped heavy and proprietary across Luka’s shoulders, talking about nothing important. Outside, the sun was bright. Somewhere behind them Fernando Torres was probably still talking to staff, or already gone. Neither of them looked back.
In the car Sergio reached across the centre console, laced their fingers together, and refused to let go even when he needed both hands at a junction. Luka didn’t mind. He watched the road and the way Sergio’s thumb kept tracing small, absent circles over his knuckles, and felt the quiet certainty settle back into place where it belonged.
Later—much later, when the flat was dim and the city noise had faded and Sergio had made good on every promise of clinginess—Luka lay with his head on Sergio’s chest and listened to the steady heartbeat under his ear.
“You’re still thinking about it,” Sergio murmured into his hair.
“A little.”
“Good.” Sergio’s arms tightened. “Next time someone from my past decides to be charming, you can just look at me like that again. I’ll find it hilarious and then I’ll remind you who I belong to. Deal?”
Luka smiled against his skin. “Deal.”
Sergio pressed a kiss to the top of his head, then another, then another, as if he couldn’t quite stop. “For the record,” he said quietly, “I was never the one who changed for someone else. I just finally found the person who made staying the same feel like the best decision I ever made.”
Luka didn’t answer with words. He only turned his face into Sergio’s neck and stayed there, warm and certain, while the afternoon light shifted across the walls and the rest of the world stayed safely outside.