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It starts innocently enough.
For a while, in their relationship, Lance has only been thinking about how Fernando is always speaking English to him – excluding the small, intimate pet names he would whisper or the copious amounts of praises he would slip from time to time – and how he had made no traceable effort of trying to speak to Fernando in Spanish. The thought makes him freeze again as he brushes his teeth, suddenly hyper aware of the things around him he has no idea how to say in Spanish, the roll of toothpaste foaming at his mouth and a pimple glaring as it sits on his jaw.
“Are you okay, Lance?” Fernando asks, brushing past him to switch the tap on. “You know, you have been brushing your teeth for a while. Here, spit out.”
Lance obeys, letting Fernando take his toothbrush aside and watching as the water swirls down the drain. When his mouth is clear and his pimple covered with a patch, he turns to see Fernando finishing off his shave, foam coming off his razor.
“What’s foam in Spanish?” Lance blurts out. Fernando, confusion on his face, looks at Lance through the mirror.
“Espuma,” Fernando says, accent rolling off his tongue. “Why?”
Lance shrugs, tries to ignore the emptiness in his chest. “Just curious,” he says. Then, gesturing vaguely toward the bathroom exit, waves his hand, adding, “Gonna make breakfast now. Want anything?”
The confusion melts off Fernando’s face as he smiles softly instead, a careful gaze that makes Lance want to learn how to breathe.
“Anything is fine,” Fernando tells him, focusing back on trying not to nick himself. Lance resists the urge to kiss him.
“Right,” Lance mumbles, heart racing. On his way downstairs, he opens the app store on his phone and searches for language learning apps, downloading the first one he sees.
A bright green owl stares right back at him.
—
“Este,” Lance starts, nervous as he pokes at his dinner. Esteban looks up from his own plate, eyebrow raised, urging him to continue. “You speak Spanish right?”
“Yes?” Esteban says. “Why do you ask, Lance?”
“So, uhm,” Lance says, “you know how me and Fernando-”
“You’re romantic?” Esteban asks him, a sly grin forming on his face. “Lance, you want to learn Spanish for Fernando?”
“Yeah,” Lance admits sheepishly. “Look, Esteban, I know you don’t like Nando that much-”
“Euphémisme,” Esteban mutters.
“-but I really want to learn,” Lance says. “Like, he’s always speaking English for me, always being so considerate to me. So. Could you help?”
“Sure, fine,” Esteban says. “What do you want to know?”
“I’m using Duolingo?” Lance offers. “Do you. Is it.”
“Duolingo?” Esteban asks. “Like the meme of the chouette?”
“Yeah.”
“But why do you need my help if you are already learning?” Esteban asks him.
“For accuracy?” Lance says. “Come on, Este, please?”
Esteban stares at Lance before slowly blinking, sighing as he leans back. “Fine,” Esteban tells him. “But only because you’re my friend, Lance.”
“Mon ami!” Lance exclaims, grinning. Esteban shakes his head.
—
“What are you doing?” Fernando asks, watching Lance rush to put his phone away.
“Nothing!” Lance says. “I was just… messaging Esteban!”
“Right,” Fernando says, dubious, narrowing his eyes. “Lancito, are you sure?”
“I’m sure, Nando,” Lance tells him. Then, to compensate, leans forward to kiss Fernando on the cheek. “Nothing else.”
“Okay then,” Fernando concedes, pulling Lance down to sit next to him, pressing a kiss behind his jaw. “Eres hermoso,” he mumbles, teeth grazing Lance’s skin. “Stop texting him, yes? We watch a movie now?”
“Hm?” Lance says, distracted, as he tries his best to discreetly check if his streak was saved. “Yeah sure, Fer, anything you want.”
“Hm,” Fernando says, suspicious. He pulls back to grab the television remote, putting on a crappy French drama he knows Lance hates. “This okay?”
“Uh,” Lance says, looking up, recognising the eerily familiar dialogue. “Wha- Fernando, please, anything but this?”
“Magic word,” Fernando taunts, grinning. Lance stares at him, shuffling closer, their legs pressed against each other.
“Te amo?” he offers. Fernando blinks, before a soft smile stretches across his face, and he brings a hand to curl in Lance’s hair.
“Close enough,” Fernando tells him, and kisses him on the edge of his mouth, warm and gentle. “Is Spanish movie okay?”
Lance nods, leaning forward to kiss Fernando again. “Sounds good,” he mumbles.
Fernando laughs.
—
Lance is eventually obsessed.
Every day, the moment Fernando is not by his side, he takes his phone out and listens to the strange, mumbling sentences from the bright green owl, fantiscising Fernando with his fluency in Spanish, and clicks at the screen until all of it turns green. He gets particularly good at speaking exercises, redirecting some of his money to subscribe to the app, using any available opportunity to talk and talk and talk until he thinks Duolingo could make a podcast out of his desperation.
He also finds a way to hack the system, scoring all the necessary XP to guide him upwards; up enough he advances in leagues, gain rewards, gets validated for his hard work even though he is trying to act as benevolent as possible. He does the match-madness tournaments almost ritually, unlocks all the XP boosts until the time accumulates for a day, wastes away on his phone like an addict.
Fernando checks on him, once in a while, in their house with his thumbs tapping away and his headphones on. Lance does not know what Fernando thinks he is doing; he would rather not, after all, want to ruin the surprise, and hopes Fernando trusts him enough.
By the time the hundredth day streak hits, Lance stares at the number and feels a sense of pride overcome him. Would this be enough? Could this work?
He has to try to find out.
—
Lance does not find out any time in that month, too busy fumbling the sentences through his head, cowardly backing out the moment he hears the dangerous, sharp accent curl from Fernando’s mouth. He asks Esteban to repeat sentences with him, bores him with them until Esteban himself sounds more French than Spanish and gives up halfway through a conversation.
“Stupide Fernando,” Esteban curses under his breath. “Lance, I will personally punch you if any more nonsense fucking- Anglais. Just talk to him. Lâche.”
Lance stares after him as Esteban packs his stuff and leaves, dollar bills left hazardously on the table to pay for their drinks.
—
“Fer,” Lance whispers, dead at night.
“Sì, amor?” Fernando asks, concerned.
“Question,” Lance starts, fingers tracing the veins on Fernando’s hand. “What’s the difference between ‘te quiero’ and ‘te amo’?”
Fernando kisses the rough calluses of Lance’s free hand, soothing. “Why the sudden interest?” he asks, but indulges Lance anyways, answering, “Te quiero is more, eh, casual? But amo is intimate.”
“Oh,” Lance says. He takes his hands away from Fernando to place his head against his chest instead, forehead dug against his chin. “Okay, thanks. You can sleep now, babe.”
Fernando breathes out something akin to a laugh, soft and warm against Lance’s skin. “Okay,” he says, “buenas noches.”
“Buenas noches,” Lance says back, rewarded with a light kiss to his hair. Inside, his heart flutters and his stomach churns; he goes to sleep feeling proud of himself.
—
“Lancito?” Fernando calls out. “Where are you?”
“Kitchen,” Lance calls back, trying to finish the lesson as fast as possible, frantically clicking on all the options until he gets the answer correct. “What’s up?”
Fernando sticks his head into the kitchen and stares at Lance, sees him tapping furiously at his phone, a panicked expression on his face. “Lance? What is wrong?”
“Uh nothing,” Lance tells him, switching his phone off and putting it away in his pocket. “What’s up?”
Fernando narrows his eyes at Lance in a discerning manner, and wiggles his fingers in front of Lance’s face. “Amor, what were you doing?”
“Nando,” Lance whines just as Fernando inches closer, other hand reaching to grab at Lance’s hip, tugging him closer. “Come on-”
“Hm?” Fernando says. “So what were you doing?”
“You’re a menace, Nando,” Lance says, trying to pull away when Fernando begins to nip at his ear. “Fine, fine! I’ll tell you.”
“Hm,” Fernando mumbles into his skin, pressing a kiss against the bruise by Lance’s earlobe.
“I was doing Duolingo,” Lance says, Fernando freezing against him. “The language app.”
“Language?” Fernando asks. “Why would you need a language app?”
“I’m trying to teach myself Spanish,” Lance grumbles. “There, you know now. I wanted to surprise you when I got better, but clearly-”
“Lance,” Fernando hums, pulling away so that Lance can see his face. “Te amo.”
“Te amo mas,” Lance mumbles, half-smiling. “I know that.”
“And did this Duo-lingo teach you that?”
“No, you did,” Lance says. He leans down to press a kiss against Fernando’s cheekbone, fingers reaching to trail at his jaw. “You’re such a good teacher.”
“Exactly!” Fernando says, half-muffled when Lance kisses him on the mouth. “Cariño, practice is better than the app, no?”
“I have a streak though,” Lance tells him, letting Fernando push him against the kitchen counter, the handlebars of the kitchen cupboards digging into his legs.
“Streak?” Fernando asks, mouth trailing along Lance’s neck. “How long?”
“One- fuck, one hundred and forty days,” Lance rushes out, feeling when Fernando lets the number sink in, teeth hard against his pulse. “Nando-”
“So long?” Fernando says. “Lancito, so considerate, learning for so long? So kind, beautiful, very smart, hm?”
“Nando,” Lance says, just as Fernando pulls away. “Hey-”
“I’m going to shower,” Fernando tells him, smirking as he walks backward. “You can continue your lessons.”
“No,” Lance whines. “Please?”
Feigning reluctance, Fernando laughs, shaking his head as he steps out of the kitchen. “You can join me!”
Lance drops his phone as he chases after Fernando, Duolingo’s deadly gaze staring up from the screen.