#chernando

“Os estais cómodo?” (Are you comfortable?)

Checo took the catalan kind of Spanish and translated it through his head. Then he nodded, tilting his body closer to the older man. 

Fernando was shorter than Checo but stockier. Strong. Broad in the way that the weight-managed drivers weren’t. Age and increased muscle mass changed him, although he swore that he was ‘un niño medio gordo’ when he was young.

The older Spaniard was not young, but he still had stamina. 

In bed? Checo used every tactic to not fall apart or pass out. It felt like they were running a marathon and not fucking like two normal people. Everything seemed to be hedonistic with him. As if Fer wanted to wring every single bit of pleasure from which thing that he did. 

What he enjoyed about Fernando was his companionship out of it all. A romantic soul. He was ‘cheeky’, mischievous. Annoying. All the best and worst parts of someone formed into a great man. 

The Spaniard that was in Ferrari. Won two– Checo broke himself from that kind of thinking. 

“Ando genial.” He rubbed his cheek on the soft wool of Fernando’s sweater. Warm and a dark green that made his hazel eyes stand out. (I’m great.)

Fer allowed him to tuck his head into the space between his shoulder and neck. Humming in a kind of contentment that could be dangerous. “No te puedo convencer en extender el viaje?” (I can’t convince you to extend the trip?)

“Tengo clases el lunes.” He closed his eyes and tuned out the giggles coming from the other end. It was better to take a nap now, no? He would have energy to do things later. (I have classes on monday.)

“Ah,” He could feel the older man’s lips brush against his hairline. The heavy weight of his hand on his thigh. 

Despite how insane Fernando could be, the Spaniard was a source of great comfort. 

The chance to speak spanish, while having different dialects– in a country where it seemed like very few people spoke spanish? It was the best. 

Maybe that’s why he clung to Fernando and Carlos so desperately. It was a comfort that he would refuse to give up.

“Vete a dormir, viejo.” He could sense that his breathing was becoming heavier and heavier. (Go to sleep, old man.)

“A quién le estais llamando viejo?” (Who are you calling an old man?)

At this point, Checo knew that he was playing up his dialect. “Al viejo que manda canciones de Miguel Bosé.” (To the old man that sends me songs by Miguel Bosé)

His chuckled reverated under his ear. He could imagine the wide toothy smile that Fernando had from beneath closed eyes.