gin-soaked boy

Thu, 25 Jun 2009 21:07:04 GMT

In response to a meme, a tiny ficlet starring Jonathan Woodgate and David Bentley for calzamante.

It's about thirty seconds before it dawns on David, half-asleep and preferring it that way, that the weak, negligible noise from the bathroom hadn't been a shampoo bottle being opened or a toothbrush being dropped or anything harmless and inoffensive like that. It had been that tube he keeps in the cupboard where Jonathan won't have the patience to look, the tube with his favourite hair gel.

Except that Jonathan has had the patience to look and he's just opened that tube, and David remembers that Jonathan had been fully awake five minutes ago, wide awake and bored. David had turned on his side and gone back to sleep, and Jonathan had murmured something. David can't be sure, of course, but he thinks he'd muttered something. Something which, in retrospect, seems somewhat ominous.

Pushing himself awake and off the bed, pausing only briefly to make sure his legs aren't still asleep, David proceeds into the bathroom where he finds Jonathan leaning against the sink, wearing a jersey in addition to the boxers he must have pulled on when he got out of bed. It isn't Jonathan's jersey, though. It's David's jersey. And it's definitely David's hair gel that he's currently pouring liberally and aimlessly into his hair.

"That's my –" David begins, before realising that Jonathan's already well aware of who is the rightful owner of the substance currently residing in his hair, "You're still drunk."

Jonathan is staring intently at his own image in the mirror, trying to shape his bangs into something even vaguely resembling style and failing horribly, "How'd you do this?" He tries parting his hair on the other side, to equally abysmal effect. "And I had about twice as much to drink last night as you did." David is almost surprised that he doesn't even try to fake any hiccupping or burping whatsoever. "'cos you're weak."

"Your hair's too long." David has a plan already, because Jonathan really is that drunk, though he isn't sure that he's all that much more sober than Jonathan is. "Want me to cut it for you?"

And Jonathan shrugs before trying to coax a mohawk out of his wayward locks. David just gets the scissors, briefly considering just how much Jonathan is going to hate him for this once he sobers up.

…

The next time David wakes, he's got the sort of hangover that feels like divine retribution and the latter stages of something leading to certain death and he's fairly sure that he can think of any number of sexually transmitted diseases that are more fun than this. Jonathan, apparently, is feeling fine, with the minor exception of being really rather upset about his hair. He still brings David a cup of tea but he can't resist commenting when he hands it to David, "Serves you fucking right for cutting my hair."

Injury.

Sun, 25 Jan 2009 19:30:33 GMT

Title: Injury
Pairing: Jonathan Woodgate / David Bentley
Rating: R, for swearing and implications
Disclaimer: Not mine; all lies
Note: For Ruby, to make her feel better about Spurs and their epic fail

It's only a small sound, only slightly different in pitch from the sounds he was making seconds ago, but David can tell that the sound Jonathan just made, mouth and teeth still pressed against his neck and hands dug as firmly into the sweat-slicked skin on David's thighs as those thighs are wrapped [desperately tight] around Jonathan's hips, had the traces of shock and suddenness and absolutely nothing good about it. David keeps still, as still as he can, quietly untangling his fingers from Jonathan's habitually unruly locks [making a mental note to make him cut it shorter], and feels Jonathan's breathing get slower and heavier against his shoulder, feels the rigidness with which he stays where he is.

Finally, he feels Jonathan swallow, and the grip grows just a little less tight, and David figures that he'd better ask before moving, "You didn't?"

David can't decide if it's a chuckle or sigh, but he thinks that Jonathan's voice sounds almost as amused as bitter when he speaks, "I did. You're fucking heavy, mate." He pauses, for long enough to make David wonder what he's supposed to do [to make him wonder whether this is really the time to protest that he isn't heavy at all], "You're going to have to – you're going to have to climb off yourself." David almost laughs at Jonathan's uncertainty [the faint suggestion of embarrassment], but braces himself and rests his hands as lightly as he can on Jonathan's tense shoulders, supporting himself against the wall as he lowers his legs to the floor. Jonathan doesn't move very much at all, just leans forward a little bit, still trapping David against the wall, and breathes [David figures] as steadily as he can.

"We need to get you lying down," David says, gently pushing Jonathan out of his way, finding a hand and placing it on his shoulder in some most-likely-useless show of support. Jonathan doesn't collapse on the bed so much as he gingerly tries to stretch himself across it, and David can't help but laugh as he lies down next to him in a wholly undignified tangle of naked limbs [making Jonathan attempt to raise an eyebrow at him], "Well, what are you going to tell the gaffer?"

Jonathan does almost laugh and almost tries to roll on his side, away from David, before he remembers that he can't, "Oh, fuck off, David."

Brunello.

Sun, 04 Jan 2009 20:59:38 GMT

Title: Brunello
Pairing: Andrea Pirlo / Massimo Ambrosini
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Not mine; all lies
Note: For roadtoharmony and curry_chicken who are to blame for this whole mess

Even in what little light there is [they've turned off everything but the reading lights], Massimo will read any text available to him. Andrea asked him about it, once, and he shrugged and said that he couldn't help it; Andrea supposes that he can't. Now, he's reading the label on the wine bottle, turning it this way and that to catch the soft light from the lamp next to his bed and reading bits and pieces, deprived of any context, aloud to Andrea. Andrea doesn't care much; it's a Brunello, it's just about the right age, and that's all he needs to know, but he finds it amusing [comforting in its familiarity] that Massimo can't help reading the label.

When every tiny bit of text has been read and filed away for future reference, Massimo tips the bottle with the sort of practiced ease that he shouldn't quite possess [the sort of practiced ease that comes with being a sommelier or a connoisseur of the kind who doesn't mind the liver condition with which he'll some day find himself] and pours the wine evenly and sparingly into the two glasses on the nightstand between their beds. They sit, facing each other, on the two beds that are really too close together by any four-star hotel standards, Massimo on the one by the window, Andrea on the one by the door. Their knees almost touch, neither of them in the habit of slouching, both taught to sit properly, knees tucked in almost-tight [but not too-tight, because they are men], and Andrea wonders if Massimo finds this a little too close as well. He seems not to notice, and Andrea decides to do the same.

The wine poured, Massimo hands him his glass, a conspiratorial smile on his face [Andrea is unsure if this is due to the excellent wine, so rarely found in these parts, or because they're not supposed to be doing this]. They drink, slowly trying the wine on for size, making sure there's no trace of cork, both pretending that they know, and care, more than they do. They even smile at each other, because they know they reach the same diagnosis, at roughly the same time. Massimo shuffles his legs slightly, so both of his stretch past, around Andrea's, and places his glass back on the nightstand, "I was a bit too eager to try that wine, wasn't I?"

"I think you might have been," Andrea places his glass next to Massimo's and regrets it immediately, because it leaves him with nothing to do with his hands, "definitely too cold."

"I suppose it would be a crime to drink it like that," Massimo's voice sounds hoarse, more nervous than it normally does, like he's talking to a journalist, the trace of a stutter long left behind back in it, "I suppose we should wait."

Andrea shifts his weight, moves his legs, looks at the glasses instead of Massimo, "Yes. We should probably wait."

Silk Cut.

Sun, 05 Oct 2008 11:31:34 GMT

Title: Silk Cut
Pairing: Owen Hagreaves / Dimitar Berbatov
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not mine; all lies

The coloured boxes sitting side by side on the shelf behind the counter (within easy reach, even if you aren't that tall) mean little to Owen. He's never looked at them before, never even considered the possibility that he might one day glance at them and wonder which ones he should get (he shouldn't get any of them, he knows), which ones might be better, which might be worse. They're all bad, he knows; he's learnt this from an early age, learnt that they'll shorten your breath until they take it away completely; learnt that they're a filthy habit for those of weak character. This he has learnt from parents and minders and teachers who all looked pointedly, not at him, but at those other kids, the ones who would hide behind bike sheds and gyms to share each other's cigarettes and breaths. He'd been almost jealous at fourteen (priorities are so easily skewed at fourteen) when he'd seen two of them kiss, two who were in his year, his age, and he'd wondered if that was what it took. He knows now that it isn't, and yet he still examines the little cardboard boxes instead of paying for his milk.

The brands mean little to him: he's heard of Camel, he thinks, and Marlboro. He's seen other boxes with the words 'Benson & Hedges' on them; he recognises the colours on Lucky Strike. There is little point in admitting (to himself, to anyone else) who he's buying them for, because he still wouldn't know which box to buy, doesn't even know as much as that. Owen supposes that he could make a qualified guess, try to recall the colour against the skin of Berbatov's hand (not Camel), or the colour as it looked against the seat of a car or a nightstand (not Lucky Strike, not Marlboro, though it could be Marlboro Light). This, he knows, is as qualified as his guess will be, as much as it will ever matter, because he knows he'll never open the pack himself, and he tells himself that he knows that Berbatov won't open it either.

Silk Cut, then. There's no reason why it couldn't have been Silk Cut, and Owen imagines that it sounds like something nicer than cigarettes. He puts in a minor performance (he knows better than to count on grand productions), wonders out loud which brand of cigarettes his friend had asked him to buy, and he returns with a pint of semi-skimmed milk for his tea (only then does he remember that he takes a bit of sugar as well) and a pack of Silk Cuts, which he hides in a drawer, expecting to be surprised when he'll one day find them while looking for something else, something less forgotten.

*

It's Berbatov who opens it.

He's asked, politely, if Owen minds that he smokes. Owen doesn't mind, but only because he's never had to make this decision before, because no one's ever asked. He knows that he'll have to leave windows open for days to get the smell out; he knows that Berbatov would go sit on the terrace if asked, that he shouldn't even feel bad for asking (the sky hangs miles above their heads and the sun is still above the rooftops), but he doesn't ask him to, he doesn't want to ask him (knows that he doesn't, because this wasn't easy and he knows that he could still slip and slide and there's no reason for either of them to really want Berbatov to stay here).

And he almost forgets, when Berbatov realises that he's out, that he's thrown an empty pack into the litter outside his house just hours before, Owen almost forgets that there's a pack of Silk Cuts in that drawer, white and pristine and waiting for this moment. He remembers, of course, but it seems strange suddenly: not the sort of thing you'd offer (not the kind of metaphor he's looking for, somehow too revealing, too hard to come by). So he doesn't offer, not exactly, not in so many words. He opens that drawer and finds the little box, tossing it to Berbatov who catches it and betrays no surprise. There are a few good excuses that Owen could think of, for the pack of cigarettes lying guiltily hidden in a drawer; excuses that Berbatov would accept without question, and Owen decides that he would be wasting words and breath (wasting more breath), and it would only amount to losing his nerve, to giving up ground (and this is his ground).

Berbatov takes out two cigarettes and offers one to Owen, who sits down and takes it. Their ritual in doing this has not complicated itself yet, though it has becoming predictable and formulaic, right down to Berbatov's hidden half-smile when Owen tries to breathe the smoke in and out, as calmly as he can, but feels it stop and twist somewhere in his throat. Owen can't tell one cigarette from another (although Berbatov tells him that he'd notice if it had no filter) and Berbatov doesn't seem to care, so they go through half a pack, putting out one cigarette after another in an untouched cup of coffee, before Owen notices that you can still smell the shampoo in someone's hair if you're close enough and cigarettes taste differently in someone else's mouth, even through the layers of smoke sitting hazily on your tongue. Berbatov, Owen decides, is still sharper around the edges than he is, though dimmed slightly by nicotine; his movements, frantic and aroused and high, are still slower than Owen's, more certain, and Owen whispers curses into his mouth and tells him to hurry the fuck up, for once.

There's every reason why he should (Owen doesn't know this high, doesn't know when it will wear off), and perhaps he does, though Owen could swear he can't tell the difference. The couch is neither long nor wide enough for either of them, yet it strikes Owen as odd that they should struggle so to stay on it (that they should bother), and he still worries, briefly, as he presses himself into the hand wrapped around him, that he might make more of a mess than he should, that there are all sorts of warnings written on cigarette packs. He knows that he's only left himself with one conclusion, and he reaches it, they both reach it, though Berbatov is slower to get there, smirking into Owen's neck and not nearly as close to falling off the edge of the couch as Owen was.

When Owen reaches out, stretching a sweaty hand towards the half-empty box to pry out another cigarette, to fill the room with even more of the white smoke that he stopped noticing after the third cigarette, he feels Berbatov's breath, cool against his neck, as he laughs and asks if he doesn't think he's had enough. Still, it isn't until Berbatov tells him to save some for next time (Owen wants to hear a promise, yet tells himself not to) that he lets go and pushes the box further away instead, putting it out of his reach. As soon as Berbatov has pulled on his clothes, as slowly as he let Owen pull them off, and has left, quietly and unobtrusively, Owen puts the cigarettes back in the drawer.

*

It's not until they've smoked the second half of the cigarettes in the small white box that Owen buys another one. He chooses a different shop this time, puts on even less of a performance, and asks for a pack of Silk Cuts. He never thinks to ask, or check, what brand Berbatov actually prefers, and Berbatov never tells him.

Dynamite.

Sun, 14 Sep 2008 11:17:43 GMT

Title: Dynamite
Characters: Michael Laudrup, Preben Elkjær
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Not mine; all lies
Note: cornerflag repost, to keep things in order

i: June 1984

Only briefly does it occur to him that this is another man's pair of shorts; they're dirty and wet, soaked with another man's sweat, and his hands involuntarily tighten around the white fabric, flicks of red stripes appearing between his fingers. He can hear the stitches giving in one by one, bits of polyester coming apart, and he knows that he's making the tear bigger, though he doesn't suppose that will matter much at this point.

They're already torn and useless; they'll never be worn again. He won't be needing them any more: none of them will be needing their white-and-red shorts any more. These shorts have had their moment; it came and went, it is lost to the past and the future. There'll be other shorts, surely, of similar cut and colour (but not quite the same), and perhaps they won't be as ill-treated and ill-fated as this pair, perhaps they'll hold together.

"Can I have my shorts back?" Elkjær is older than him, and seven years seem like a lifetime (half a lifetime at least) from where Michael is sitting, looking up at him suddenly, not quite understanding these strange sounds before realising that this is his native tongue, words his mother taught him. So he looks at Elkjær, and he looks at the shorts between his hands; he briefly thinks that he might have something to say, but he knows that he doesn't (he knows that he's not yet old enough to know, though this has made him older).

Silently, he holds out Elkjær's torn shorts to him, palm upwards and outwards, making a gift of something that doesn't belong to him, something that will always be Elkjær's.

Cradling the shorts slightly more carelessly in just one hand, but still protecting them, somehow, with his legs, Elkjær sits down next to Michael. There's enough space on the bench; everyone else is in the showers or long out of the showers or somehow lingering in corners and toilets. Elkjær knows exactly how close he can sit, and Michael wonders how long it takes to learn that kind of subtlety, that kind of wisdom (how many times you have to distance someone with closeness before you understand the difference between thirteen centimeters, and twelve) though he suspects that Elkjær never had to learn.

For a second, he wants Elkjær to say something, because he thinks that he might have something to say, because he wants to hear the familiarity of his accent, but Elkjær is quiet for second after age-long second before snorting, a strange mocking sound in the emptying dressing room. Michael half-looks at him, unsure of whether he wants to ask. He doesn't have to, because Elkjær snorts again and lifts the shorts, "Well, they're done for, aren't they?"

"Yeah –" Michael doesn't know how to respond to something so blindingly obvious, so he thinks of what his mother would have said, "– I think even my mum would agree with you on that one."

"Your mum's one of that kind, then?" Elkjær's wry smile seems like the smartest way of looking at the world just now, but Michael isn't sure that he can replicate it yet. He knows what words to choose, though, because talking about mothers always was far easier than talking about football.

"I suppose she is," he tries to smile like Elkjær is smiling, but it's too much like a real smile, "What, did your mum never complain about grass stains and mud and things?"

"She did, alright," Elkjær holds up the shorts, looking at one side and then the other, "And she'd probably have handed me some thread and a needle if I'd brought this pair home fifteen years ago."

"Well, it seems a pity to just throw them out," Michael isn't sure where he's going, if he's allowed to say things like this, at times like these, "they've got – you know, they've got –"

And Michael doesn't get any further, because he decides that it isn't his place to say this and he can't think of any other way to finish the sentence, so he lets it hover awkwardly before Elkjær nods, almost like he agrees, "Yeah, they've got history."

Before he knows it, Elkjær is no longer sitting next to him but looking tall and old as he stands up and pats Michael's shoulder (not gently, but there's little energy and enthusiasm in it), saying – by way of goodbye – "Don't worry, I won't throw them out." Michael doesn't move for a while; he doesn't want to leave this moment yet, he's not sure that he knows exactly what it means and what it feels like. So he stays, and practices a wry smile, and he realises that it was foolish to think that Elkjær might throw those shorts away.

ii. June 1986

"Spain, huh?"

Michael merely suggests the question mark at the end of the sentence, lowering the pitch just a notch or so, mouth full of food and deliberately tactless, enough to make Preben smile (what else can he do?), "Yeah. Spain."

"I suppose it figures."

Preben can't quite make himself smile now, maybe because this isn't the right kind of place for smiling, or the right time; because this is the World Cup, and this is Spain.

They're not alone, and they know that the rest of the table, every last one of the hopeful golden boys seated with them, knows what they know, and they know that they've all decided that it doesn't matter. They're older and wiser and better (they're good, this time around, everyone keeps saying that they're just that damn good), and they won't make the same mistake twice.

Preben still can't smile, in spite of himself. He's been smiling wryly for a few years now, and he's still very good at it, but Michael hasn't learned how to do it just right (he hasn't learned to do it like it really doesn't matter, all that much, and it occurs to Preben that it would be a fine thing if Michael never did learn), and Preben can't find any other words than, "Yeah, I suppose it figures."

As they make their way up the stairways after dinner, with each a stomach-full of food and Mexican air and would-be light-heartedness, they argue, like they always do, about whether the room had smelled like smoke when they left it, and whether it had smelled like smoke when they arrived, (Michael knows that it did, and it didn't, and it'll still smell just a little bit like smoke when they come back). Preben says that it doesn't, and if it does it's got nothing to do with him, and he half-smiles again, enough that Michael doesn't feel that much younger any more.

Their room does smell like smoke, and Michael can only hold on to his indignation for a few minutes when Preben says it won't matter, then, and starts smoking a cigarette out of the open window, trying and failing to blow smoke rings, before leaning against the window sill to look at Michael, "So how's Juve?"

"It's okay," Michael says, because by and large it is, "How's Hellas?"

"Not bad," Preben takes a drag off his cigarette, blowing the smoke out of the corner of his mouth, "Been better, but when haven't things been better?"

Michael shrugs; he's pretty sure that things are fine as they are (except for that one little detail, that one little thing they have to do), and Preben adds, before throwing the still-burning cigarette out of the window, "Don't worry about Spain, Michael –" a short pause, "– no, you probably should worry about Spain, but not because it's Spain. It's just Spain, right?"

"And you're telling me?" (Michael never was very good at cocking eyebrows, but if he were better he would have done just that.)

Preben isn't very good at it either, but he makes a half-hearted attempt before laughing, at himself or at Michael or at both, and nodding, "Of course I'm telling you. I've got no luck telling myself, so instead I'm telling you."

His face looks no different, still smiling, still almost unconcerned, (no trace of anything else, as far as Michael can see), so he decides that it might be a simple case of repaying the favour, "It's just Spain, Preben." Preben lights another cigarette and asks what's on tv, and Michael has to remind him to keep his foul habit near the window when he moves towards his bed, the better to be comfortable while watching the cartoon that Michael chooses. Neither of them can remember ever watching Bugs Bunny in Spanish before.

iii. June 1992

It's too late for phone calls, Michael thinks, even as he answers the phone in spite of himself, just to make it stop ringing. He's got any number of guesses about who could be calling (any member of his family, any old team-mate), and he's grateful that he's already talked to Brian, happy and probably drunk and so much younger than himself at that very moment. He'd congratulated him, and he'd meant it; he'd sent his best to the team, and he'd meant that as well. It hadn't been difficult (because he'd meant it), but he can't help hearing what everyone else isn't saying, and he'd rather that he didn't. The house is quiet now, everyone else asleep, and Michael finds himself almost enjoying it, like any other night, until the phone rings at half twelve.

It's Preben.

Of course it's Preben, he thinks to himself, even as he says hello and poses his first inconspicuous question – "So did you watch the match?"

And Preben, being Preben, laughs, making Michael wonder if he might have had a beer or two while watching the game, while celebrating it, "Of course I did! Who'd have thought, huh? I suppose –" but he breaks off, so Michael never does find out what it is that Preben supposes, "– Hey, I just thought I'd call and ask if you can hear the party all the way down in Spain?"

Michael is quite certain that isn't why Preben is calling half an hour after midnight, half an hour into the day after they'd won (after the other boys had won), but he still answers the question, "Not really, no, but I'm sure I'm just going old and deaf, right?"

"Right, yeah!" Preben is still laughing, and Michael wonders if Preben was ever as used to drinking beer as he was to smoking, if he ever got to be as good at it, "We're getting old, Michael, we're starting to get old! Such a shame, huh?"

Sitting down, trying to arrange his legs comfortably as he sinks into the couch, Michael wonders if he should sit down at all; this won't take long and he can feel his body giving way, but he doesn't want to wake up at five in the morning, arms and legs and back (yes, they're getting old) almost in pain after sleeping at all the wrong angles, and a dull, unclean taste in his mouth. He still sits, because this is important enough that he should, and says, "Yeah, but I guess we'll have to live with it – not much else we can do, is there?"

"Well, I guess that you're at least keeping fit," Preben answers, "which is more than you can say for me, I'm afraid."

"I do my best."

(Michael knows what it is that makes Preben laugh this time, but he also knows that it's bait, or close enough, and he's not going to go for it today; he knows that's not what they're going to talk about today, and Preben knows it just as well as he does.)

"The boys won, didn't they?" It's a simple question, and a straightforward statement, and Michael can't find any other answer than yes, and he lets Preben continue, because one of them has to, "That's good, that's good –" and they both hold their breath just long enough for one of them to gather the courage, "– I'd wish that could have been us." The other says something obvious (like yes, again), and they ask polite questions about wives and children before saying goodnight. Michael only has to take one deep breath before getting up, promptly removing himself from the couch, and going to bed. Nearly asleep under light southern sheets, he remembers that he's forgotten to turn off the VCR, and he wonders what it might still be recording.

Please note:
In 1984, Denmark qualified for an international tournament for the first time since 1964. The team, consisting of some of the best players that Denmark has ever produced, was dubbed "Danish dynamite" in the press and the name stuck for the remainder of the eighties – until that generation of great footballers started to retire and made way for other, possibly less spectacularly talented but certainly more successful players. Two of the most fondly remembered members of that team were Preben Elkjær [born 1957] and Michael Laudrup [born 1964]; they formed a striking partnership that has never since been matched in Danish football.

This team reached the semi-final of the 1984 Euros, only to lose on penalties to Spain. It was Elkjær who sent his shot over the crossbar, famously tearing his shorts. In spite of doing very well in the group stages of the 1986 World Cup, Denmark lost their Round of 16 match 5-1. Again, they lost to Spain. Elkjær retired from football in 1990, and Laudrup fell out with the national team manager, Richard Møller Nielsen, and didn't play in the 1992 Euros, which Denmark won. At the time, Laudrup was plying his trade in Spain, playing for FC Barcelona.

Hangover.

Mon, 04 Aug 2008 17:46:43 GMT

Title: Hangover
Pairing: Sébastien Frey / Iker Casillas
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not mine; all lies
Note: for my darling Conny - with apologies for lacking plot and randomness. Again.

As Seb's head hits something that he vaguely registers to be the bathroom wall, it occurs to him that this is probably not what he should be doing (or where he should be doing it). The tiles are cold underneath his back and his head is aching, and he's sure that he needs to brush his teeth almost as much as Casillas does. Casillas really should brush his teeth (and Seb is sure that Casillas thinks the same of him); he should take a shower, try to arrange his clothes properly, and slip out as quietly as possible. They both should. Instead, they're on the bathroom floor in an anonymous hotel room (his own, Seb thinks), and Seb isn't quite sure how they got there; isn't quite sure that he can blame this on the remaining alcohol in his blood stream.

(A good cure for a hangover, he's been told, is to keep drinking. A good cure for morning-after awkwardness, then, must be to unsuccessfully avoid each other in the doorway to the bathroom, and keep shagging.)

Stubble even more prominent than it was last night is scratching at his neck as Casillas bites into his shoulder while Seb tries to pull at his too-short hair; briefly, Seb wonders if stubble leaves a mark when it scratches tender skin like that, if he'll carry this with him for the rest of the day the way he knows he'll carry his hangover. But he can feel Casillas's tongue tracing his collarbone (it nearly makes him giggle, the thought that this is Iker Casillas's tongue) and dried sweat being replaced by new sweat on his back, and he can't help grinding his hips up into Casillas's, because he needs to, and because he knows he'll hear Casillas moan when he does that (and he does).

Closing his eyes, letting his fingers meet for a moment on Casillas's back before his hand drifts of its volition, following the line of his spine to where he finds too-worn, dirty boxers, already inching their way past his hips; he can feel Casillas's hands on his own hips now, his leg between both of his, and he's far too aware that he has no explanation, no excuse this time around. He doesn't want to say anything. He knows there's every reason why he should, why he should shrink away and avoid eye contact and never, ever have another drink in his life, but he doesn't want to. Still, with Casillas's mouth on his throat and his hands in his boxers (so close), he makes himself cough, or hiss, or moan, "You're still drunk, Casillas, you don't really –"

The answer is a simple one, as Casillas laughs and murmurs against his neck ("Who cares?") before he pushes Seb's boxers down, fingers curling around the top of the fabric, pulling gently downwards while his mouth leaves Seb's neck and his shoulders and collarbones, pausing to breathe in and breathe out, perhaps catching his breath before biting at a hip and chuckling while Seb realises what he's going to do. Seb helps him remove the boxers completely, clumsily scrambling to get his legs and feet out of the way, stilling only when both of Casillas's (or should it be Iker by now?) hands drift up his thighs before resting them on his hips, firmly pressing into them, holding them down because Seb wants them to be held down, wants Iker to ignore it when he stutters, "You really don't have to –", but that's as far as he gets, because Iker doesn't quite ignore it. Not quite, because he looks at him and brings a finger to his lips, smirking as his hand dips to touch Seb, smirking even more as Seb swallows and groans (as his fingers dig deeper into his hips), and he keeps smirking as he lowers his head and almost removes the hand (moist with sweat, and warm, Seb knows, but not like the mouth around him).

His head knocks into the wall again (or the toilet, he's not sure), and the floor is freezing underneath his body (he wonders what it must be like for Iker, his knees bare against the hard tiles), but as long as he can feel these hands and this mouth and tongue, as long as he is futilely pulling at Iker's hair, feeling it slip betwen his fingers, feeling Iker's mouth slip and tease and smirk, he doesn't suppose it matters. Every time his hips buck to quickly, or his back arches too far, the grip around his hip tightens a little more only to slacken until the next time he tries. In the end, he whispers, as quietly as he can (he's not sure whether he calls him Iker or Casillas, or both), a quick warning, and Iker kisses him, properly and hurriedly, and finishes him off with both hands (Seb doesn't say any names when he closes his eyes and lets go).

When Seb opens his eyes, Iker is next to him, towel in hand, but he only gets half-way through his sentence ("you should take a –") before Seb has taken the towel out of his hands, rolling both of them over, determined to repay the favour, half-certain that he can always claim he was still drunk.

Influence.

Wed, 09 Jul 2008 20:11:26 GMT

Title: Influence
Pairing: Sébastien Frey / Iker Casillas
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not mine; all lies
Note: for the exceptionally wonderful Conny, on the occasion of her birthday [with many thanks to Nol and Martha for help and handholding] - happy birthday, darling! I hope you don't mind that your fic doesn't even have the slightest semblance of a plot?

Counting backwards, calculating the volume of every emptied glass, Seb tries to figure out how drunk he must be, how little he can rely on his senses, his sense. He remembers the champagne, the wine; he even remembers the vodka and tonic (or was it gin?) that someone (or was it himself?) pressed into his hand an hour ago. One hour, maybe two: he isn't sure, because he doesn't know what time it is though it must be late. He doesn't stumble (he never stumbles) and he knows that his steps were straight and certain coming up here, though he felt dizzy on the lift. Dizzy because he's had at least eight drinks; dizzy because Casillas has had more (because he knows that you shouldn't do these things after more than three drinks). Seb doesn't feel dizzy any more; there's no suggestion of nausea, and the vodka is settled warmly in the pit of his stomach, assuring him that this might be a bad idea but it's not a big deal, assuring him that he wants to, though he pauses while listening to the click and snap of the lock (just to be sure that the door really has closed, just to be sure that Casillas wants what he wants).

They pause, right there, for a second or a minute before stumbling against each other, almost losing their balance, their touch before Seb has found a grip around Casillas's neck and he feels his hand in his hair. They kiss like drunk people do; there's no finesse, and Seb can tell that Casillas has been drinking beer, that he needs to shave twice a day (it's already time again). They take uneasy steps further into the room, hipbones painfully bumping against hipbones, stepping on each other's feet and still not letting go; they both know where they're going, what they're doing. Holding onto Casillas's arms long enough and hard enough that his hands leave his hair, long enough to get his jacket off (to get both their jackets off, thrown on the floor, already half-way crushed and crumpled), Seb watches him unbutton his shirt, slowly and inefficiently, before a mumbled comment (neither Spanish nor French) reminds him to get rid of his own. He doesn't finish before feeling Casillas's hands join his own, before feeling lips and tongue and something like teeth on his neck that his own hands give way and he lets the other man finish the job, as clumsily as he would have done it himself, and as slowly. And then they've finally stumbled all the way to the bed, landing gracelessly entangled in the sterile-smelling sheets.

It occurs to Seb that they might really be a bit too drunk for this, a bit too unprepared, but they both know ways around that (he hopes that Casillas knows a way around it, too), and as he struggles on top of Casillas, holding down a hip with one hand, forcing his one knee between both of his and feeling a thigh moving insistently as he kisses him again, with no more elegance than he did before. He thinks that Casillas might be slightly more drunk (slightly more foolish), because he pushes against him, a hand on his shoulder and a hand on his belt, and Seb isn't quite sure how he ends up on his back, hips frustratingly close and a pair of hands making short work of his belt (as short work as they've made of anything all night), and he thinks that he should retaliate, give something back, but Casillas's hand is smooth and warm around him, and he can't help lifting his hips because he's never done anything quite like this before. They are too drunk for this, really, because Seb knows that this won't last very long (all the better, perhaps), and he feels Casillas bite into his shoulder when he pushes both of them on their sides, slinging one leg over Casillas's knees to bring him closer, finding room between his busy hands, speeding up their work now (making Seb close his eyes and clench his jaws and pray for just a little bit of focus), and beneath his white shorts. They get in each other's way and they can barely do anything but lie as close as possible, alcohol breath on alcohol breath, but it's the best they can do and it works. Neither of them make much noise when they finish; just a sigh and a hiss and suddenly stilling hands.

They should move, Seb wants to say, they should leave. Quietly and soberly clean themselves up and be on their merry way; they shouldn't let themselves fall asleep. He can tell that Casillas is trying to stay awake, trying to keep his muscles under some semblance of control, and he can tell that he's failing just as quickly as he is himself. Seb doesn't even decide to worry about this tomorrow before drifting off.

Coyote Ugly.

Wed, 04 Jun 2008 22:36:30 GMT

Title: Coyote Ugly
Pairing: Massimo Ambrosini / Massimo Oddo
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine; all lies
Note: lighthearted nonsense for the_loyal_royal who finished her exams - you rock, darling!

The first thing that tells him (warns him) that he isn't where he should be, where he'd normally be, is the smell. It's not a bad smell; at least he doesn't think it would be bad if it weren't for the taste in his mouth, the taste of stale beer and stale wine, of cigarettes and missing tooth paste. Underneath the smell of his hair, it's clean and fresh, not just out of the washing machine (but nearly), and when he pushes his hair away from his face, smiling against a sheet (not exactly the same colour as his own), he decides that he likes this smell, that he likes the softness of these sheets. He even thinks that he might like this bed, though he still isn't sure whose bed it is.

And he isn't concerned, really, with whose bed it is: as long as he doesn't have to wake up (not now, not yet, while he's feeling like this) in it. So he closes his eyes firmly, too firmly, to avoid the sunlight, to avoid the colour of the sheets and the wall, to avoid waking up even more. He should have known it wouldn't work, (this is a technique tried and abandoned many times before), but he tries all the same, because you never know if it might work this time around. As it fails just as surely as it's always failed, Massimo begins to feel his own body: his legs sticking against the sheets, an arm slung around him, the warmth of another body next to his, and he begins to suspect, to form a hypothesis of whose arm, whose warmth, whose bed it might bed. He'd rather not turn around and open his eyes, but the breathing he can hear is slow and steady and safe, and he knows he can't avoid it. So he turns around, and he knows that he was right. Oddo.

Oddo, just as naked as Massimo himself, sleeping (Massimo hopes) heavily and sweetly, like someone who hasn't a care in the world. Then again, he reflects, at least Oddo's in his own bed; at least Oddo's blissfully unaware of who's sharing his bed. He's looking much the same as he always does, no worse for wear, though Massimo supposes that it would be hard to look any worse for wear, any more worn (he tries not to think about how he must look himself). The muscles in Oddo's faces move once or twice, and it looks like he's smiling, if only Massimo were in a position where he could see smiles, where he could see anything but strange beds and strange bedfellows (could taste anything but alcohol in his mouth). There might only be minutes to spare, seconds, so he moves quickly when he does move, quietly and quickly, and he's almost out the bed when he hears Oddo's voice, "Where are you going?"

Massimo doesn't know what to say, doesn't have any answer but the obvious one at hand, and he's not even sure that he remembers that one (it used to be so plain and simple). He sits, unmoving, on the edge of the bed, coming or going, and he doesn't make up his mind to look at Oddo until he hears him laugh, softly, "Well, I guess that would be obvious, wouldn't it? You're sneaking out on me." As Massimo looks on, Oddo sits up in the bed (and he tries not to notice that the sheets are falling to Oddo's middle, then slightly below) and perches against the wall before speaking again, "Too ugly for you, handsome?" There's a denial at the tip of Massimo's tongue: he's always been taught not to be rude, not to tell lies, but he still can't think of his excuse, though he tries to form words of protest as Oddo finds a half-empty pack of cigarettes on the nightstand and lights one.

"You should have one, Ambrosini," (and Massimo remembers that they have the same name, the same seven letters in their place), "even though you don't smoke and all that jazz." Massimo would remind him that no, he doesn't smoke, he doesn't like the smell of smoke, but then he smells his own hair and remembers one detail (just the one) of how he came to wake up here. So when Oddo tells him that it might help him be a bit less uptight, he shrugs and accepts it. He even sits next to him, their thighs almost (lightly) touching each other, and Massimo realises that he might as well enjoy the cigarette: it's too late to escape unnoticed now.

Ten.

Sun, 01 Jun 2008 19:27:31 GMT

Title: Ten
Characters: Rui Costa, Clarence Seedorf
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Not mine; all lies
Note: For my darling Nol, on the occasion of her birthday - I'm sorry that it's so late, dear; also, in a very strange place in my head, this song is about Rui Costa

The sun is still high above the trees in a sky that looks different from any other sky he knows (though the sky off the coast of the North Sea is harder and less focused, and the tropical sky less focused yet, to each their own beauty), and he can still hear the birds above shouts and screams and boyish laughter, so he fancies that he nearly knows what time it is, what time it must be, even if he does have to smile at himself, at his own wise folly. Still, he knows what time it is, roughly, because he always knows what time it is; when he looks at the bright green numbers in the darkness of his bedroom, listening to breathing heavier and slower than his own (a little envious, perhaps), and when he waits for a May afternoon to cool down, cool down enough that it feels like May, like a day made for moving, for running. For, and he likes this word best of all, playing.

Raising his hands to count the minutes until the sun will descend past the trees, until the shadows will stretch out and catch them at their feet, then their knees, and the air will be fresher and colder, fitting neatly into his lungs and smelling a little like rain, Clarence squints against the sun and counts. They will call it a day in a matter of minutes, he knows, and the light will be just right for playing (the small, short window, closed since the morning, will open up) in a few minutes more. He sighs, and joins the others, stretches half-exposed skin to the sun and briefly rests in it, unwilling to move from the sunshine, not until he has to (and he does), catching the hand of someone helping him to his feet and laughing when Rino says that he should watch his weight more, (old man).

They're going inside now, where they'll sit in the large hall at the large table, sharing bottles and bowls, bickering over who gets the first helping of this or that, accusing each other of taking all the best bits (Clarence has never understood the good and the better bits of pasta), of leaving no dessert for the others. Clarence doesn't hurry as much as some, though he doesn't linger as long as others: he saunters, patiently and eagerly, because his body feels hollow and stretched and he can smell the food already. Pulling out a chair, not as randomly as he would pretend (if asked), and watching as Ambrosini pulls out a chair next to his, not randomly either, he keeps a slight pretense at patience, pouring water for everyone else, pouring wine (carefully measured so the glass can tip and never spill). But when he's offered, Rui passing him a bowl, he eats quickly and heartily and doesn't talk nearly as much as he would. Rui doesn't talk much either, and Ambrosini is directing some food-muffled Italian (his mother taught him not to do that, you can tell) across the table at Inzaghi, who is directing equally food-muffled Italian the other way, his consonants slightly different, his manners slightly less self-conscious, comfortably remembered and ignored, so Clarence concentrates. He eats quickly and precisely, measuring each forkload of pasta, rolling it around the fork – expertly, but not as expertly as others – chewing an exact number of times, then swallowing. It is unlike him to eat like this; he's a slow eater, a chatty eater, occasionally given to laughing with his mouth full, though he'll conceal it with a napkin. Today, though (it has long been stasera by Italian time), he is watching the progress of the shadows on the terrace, on the grass, almost as closely as he watches the progress of the conversation, passing up and down the table, almost as closely as he watches the speed at which Rui is eating, knowing what it means. He'll have someone to play with.

There isn't much to say, once they've finished, had their supper and turned down the offer of coffee, because the light is just right, the sun only just past the trees, still above the horizon, for another twenty minutes (still light enough to play for another thirty), and they don't have to agree that playing is what they should be doing now. So they drift through open doors, feeling trainers slip softly on dewy grass, reminding themselves not to fall. It's a simple thing, really, agreeing on the size of their pitch (small: no need for all this running about), on their goals and corners and colours. Rui begins and Clarence follows, and they play with each other for a pass or two, then against each other as Clarence steals the ball, then with each other again. Clarence scores more goals, though they'll both maintain that they're not keeping count, and Rui's track pants get more dirty. As Clarence holds out his hand to help Rui up, feeling a slippery, sweaty palm and a firm grip against his own, he realises that the sun has set now, that he doesn't know where the ball went (and he wouldn't particularly like to search), so he rubs his hands in his shirt and asks, "Say we call it a night now?"

Rui knows what he's talking about, knows what the deal is (he can't be bothered to search either), and he concedes the point with a shrug and smile, "Good call –" and then he grins and pauses and touches Clarence's arm with the kind of familiarity that would never feel right coming from anyone but a team-mate, "– What do you say to getting that coffee now, then?" Neither of them are easy, early sleepers, (though they'll stay awake for different reasons), so Clarence nods and jogs inside, keeping Rui's pace, only slightly out of key with him. They're having their coffee too late, they know, and the kitchen knows, the barista giving them a doubtful look and staying uncharacteristically silent. They sit in soft chairs in a corner, grateful for air-condition and the quiet pastels of Milanello sitting rooms (even quiet pastels have their place and their time), adding too much sugar to their coffee and drinking it too slowly.

Listening to the temperate summer evening silence (more quiet than down south, up north), Clarence only speaks after he's finished his coffee and watched Rui finish his, using a tea spoon to scoop up the last sad remains, wondering what awkward questions he can ask, wondering how awkwardly he can ask them. In the end, he doesn't know, so he rehearses the verbs and their tenses in his head before nothing so much as blurting, "When are you going?"

Rui never hears awkwardness (or perhaps Rui simply doesn't know awkwardness), never lets it on if he does, so he simply replies, "We've got a house now, so we're moving in June –" but he doesn't continue, though Clarence knows that he could have told him about the view and the neighbourhood, that he could have told him about Benfica (told him that it means something, but not explained what). Instead he smirks at Clarence, because they both know what he's about to bring up, "Looking forward to playing number ten again?" Clarence smirks back for a second before shrugging and grinning, almost laughing, and not giving much by way of a reply (there is little need for one).

So they don't say much more until it's almost time to go, the lights finally on to keep the darkness safely outside; but as they haul themselves out of their chairs, slowly and wearily (but mostly just lazily), Clarence can't help but remark, "Well –" and he places his chair neatly facing the table, "– plenty of time to play a game of football or two before June, right?"

(He could swear that there is eagerness in Rui's nod and voice, in his eyes, when he answers: "Right!")

Quasi Modo.

Wed, 07 May 2008 21:33:14 GMT

Title: Quasi Modo
Pairing: Massimo Ambrosini / Yoann Gourcuff
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Not mine; all lies
Note: This wisp of a ficlet is for the wonderful the_loyal_royal - I really tried, sweetheart, but it seems that my muse has gone missing. Again.

For the first time, Yoann wonders what possessed him to accept the invitation (simple and innocent); he wonders because this is a strange room, almost as he expected it to be, but not exactly, and he wonders because he's alone, left here to take it in (make himself at home, though Massimo hadn't used those words), left here to wait for coffee or tea and, he treacherously hopes, biscuits. The room is as close to what he imagined as it could be, as close as it should be. Yoann knows where Massimo got these sofas, not quite as comfortable as sofas should be, and he's sure he knows who picked them out (the colours are coordinated and subdued, if not entirely impractical), and he's sure that coasters must be used on tables such as these.

The only part of the room that follows laws different from those of the interior designer are the shelves; they're there, stacked and imposing, providing all the decoration that the room might need (there are paintings on the walls all the same, colour-coordinated painting), but not quite as many as he'd imagined, as he'd feared. Yoann tells himself to sit in the sofa, on the edge of his seat, keep his hands where they can be seen, and wait for Massimo to come back and give him some hint, but he doesn't. Examining the books, starting from the left, looking at an alphabet that begins and ends and begins again somewhere else (looking for a system in spite of himself), it dawns on him that Massimo's taste is not so much eclectic as it is wide, if this has anything to do with taste at all (Yoann suspects it might also have something to do with compulsion). Weighing one book in his hands, reading the cover, he forgets to notice when he hears Massimo come back into the room.

"See anything you like?" And Yoann looks up, feeling like he's been caught smoking in the school yard, even though he never did smoke in the school yard (and he's sure that Massimo did, un-addicted and uncaught), finding that Massimo is much closer than he thought, a mere couple of feet from him, close enough to see which book he's picked out of the shelf, close enough to look amused that he would pick out that one.

The spine is broken, and there are coffee stains on some of pages (Massimo never was very careful with his books), so Yoann assumes he's read it, perhaps more than once, read it and enjoyed it, because it looks like a well-loved book, not carelessly read and carelessly thrown aside, "I didn't know you read French."

"No?" Yoann doesn't know if he'd expected him to answer in French, expected him to lend some evidence to the statement, but he doesn't, "I quite like reading French. It's a nice language you've got there," (Yoann doesn't know what makes him smirk, and he doesn't know what makes Massimo smirk back), "Though not as nice as Italian. Of course."

"Of course," there might be some footing to be found in this conversation; he knows this book, he's read it, studied it, (someone even bought him the tshirt once, an endearing Disney hunchback and an unlovely gypsy girl), "I just wouldn't have thought that you'd be into something so –" he knows that he'll pick the wrong word before he even says it, "– well, it's quite the romance, isn't it?"

"I suppose it is," Massimo says, smirk still firmly in place, making Yoann doubt that he'd said what he thought (making him wonder what he'd suggested), and as a hand half-covers his, lifting the book back into its place, he takes it as a particular mercy that he doesn't blush (not any more, not for a while now), because Massimo looks at him, right at him, as he continues, "A very entertaining romance, I always thought. But perhaps reading it in school ruined it for you?" (Yoann does not think that a shrug is the best possible answer, but he can't help it, can't stop himself, just as he doesn't think that he should be holding his breath as Massimo leans in, without ever leaning in that close.) "The tea is ready, though. Milk? Sugar? ... Biscuit?"

Massimo sits across from him, perched on his seat just as much as Yoann himself is, but he keeps talking about Notre-Dame de Paris while they drink their tea (milk, sugar, and more than one biscuit).

Chopsticks.

Sun, 30 Mar 2008 20:50:56 GMT

Title: Chopsticks
Pairing: Christian Vieri / Hidetoshi Nakata
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Not mine; all lies
Note: This ficlet is mostly for bustedflush as I am sure that it's all her fault anyways

It's strangely quiet, this place, in straight lines, vertical and horizontal, and basic colours (nothing more complicated than the fullest of reds, a white and a black) filling flawless facades of tables and chairs and walls. People move calmly, speak quietly, if not reverently, and Christian is sure that he must look an absolute mess in the middle of all of this order and cleanliness and style (neat and simple style, and he knows that he was never very good at this).

Nakata tells him that he doesn't; he just looks nervous, which is unbecoming (Christian is sure that it is, because it feels very unbecoming), and he says it like it's the most natural thing in the world. Nakata moves like everyone else in here, only he does it better, so Christian decides that it's easy for him to say things like that (even if they're not very reassuring at all).

He orders what Nakata tells him to order, because he has only a vague idea of what anything on the menu is, and he never did like having to ask the waiter about something (never did fancy that sort of trepidation), so he asks if any of it is very poisonous (not just a little) and decides to eat whatever they put in front of him, and he tries. He tries to copy Nakata's movements, and quickly realises that it won't do, that you need to have learned earlier and faster, that you need years of practice and experience to copy Nakata's movements, to hold the chopsticks like he holds them, even if Christian painstakingly tries to arrange his fingers just right, only to find himself dropping the chopsticks or the food as soon as it's close, as soon as he thinks he can almost taste it.

Not looking at Nakata and his half-finished meal, he keeps trying, adjusting his method a little bit every time, edging closer and further away, and managing a bite or two before he hears Nakata chuckling (quietly and almost politely); he doesn't drop the chopsticks, doesn't even throw them, but it's close, "In my defence, you know – these things are ridiculous."

"Chopsticks," Nakata begins, using his set to take another bit of sushi from his plate, "are not at all ridiculous," he eats half of it, finishing and swallowing before opening his mouth again, "in fact, they are far more civilised than forks and all those things you use to eat your food at such a staggeringly impolite pace," and he half-smiles, the way he does sometimes, "though I will concede that you're not finishing this particular meal at a very staggering pace."

"By which you mean to say," Christian isn't about to let Nakata know that he's embarrassed (even if he only is very slightly embarrassed), "that chopsticks are prettier?" He holds up his pair, almost half-way between them, cocking an eyebrow questioningly and waiting for Nakata's smile.

Nakata does smile, and nod, "By which I mean to say that they're prettier, yes," and his smile almost widens a little, "I'm glad to hear you're not completely unappreciative of beauty, Christian."

"What makes you –" Christian doesn't finish the sentence, because he already knows (he thinks he knows, and he doesn't want to know if he's wrong) what Nakata will say, which faults will be pointed out, and he likes that he think he knows. Instead, he begins again, begins a different sentence, with different words, "Well, they might be pretty, but they're still useless."

"Only because you haven't practiced," says Nakata, softly and sweetly, and he makes Christian feel very young, very unpracticed (very strange and unfamiliar), "You could learn easily if you bothered to practice," (Christian would thank him for the vote of confidence, but never has the time), "but let me help you with that, since you're obviously hungry right now."

Before he's had the chance to refuse, had the presence of mind to tell Nakata he doesn't need any help, Nakata has taken a piece of sushi from his plate, deftly between his chopsticks, and led it to Christian's mouth. Responding to whichever reflex is telling him to open his mouth, he does so, and closes it and chews, swallows, only to let Nakata repeat the exercise again and again, until Christian has eaten most of his sushi. At the end of the day, he reflects, it's the only way he's going to finish his food before the restaurant closes. Though he does remark as they leave that he can't very well bring Nakata with him every time he decides to have sushi. When Nakata laughs and agrees (though Christian isn't sure what he's suggesting, or that he's suggesting anything at all), Christian can't help but chuckle as well.

Gattopardo.

Wed, 26 Mar 2008 08:57:28 GMT

Title: Gattopardo
Pairing: Massimo Ambrosini / Yoann Gourcuff
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not mine; all lies
Note: I feel oddly compelled to say things like, "It won't happen again, officer." But who am I kidding? It probably will.

Yoann doesn't remember ever sleeping with the lights on. He knows that if he thinks about it, if he asks either of his parents (if he bothers to try remembering), he'll realise that he did, once, demand to sleep with the lights on, though it was never because he was frightened of the dark (he wouldn't even admit to it then). It seems like a distant thing now, because he doesn't remember the last time that he was able to fall asleep in anything but darkness: lights off, curtains drawn, shutters closed (he doesn't remember how to sleep any other way).

Lying with his back to Ambrosini's bed, covers almost up to his ears, eyes firmly shut, Yoann is still painfully aware that the room isn't dark, not as dark as it could be, not as dark as it should be, even if Ambrosini has only turned on the smallest of the lamps (trying, for once, to be considerate). He knows that this is the kind of thing you should get used to, that you should learn to live with, because he'll be sharing many more hotel rooms, and he might share more of them with people who read before going to sleep, (and it shouldn't matter that much if the lights are on or off). So he turns for a bit, turns from his belly to his side to his back to his side again, turns and waits for Ambrosini to finish the chapter, the book (hoping it's a short book, at least), trying to think of ways to ask him, maybe, if he would turn the lights off soon.

Instead of asking Ambrosini to turn off the lights, Yoann turns, in the end, onto his other side and looks at Ambrosini sitting cross-legged on his bed, perched over a small-looking book (300 pages at the very most, Yoann decides), and asks, "What are you reading?" At first, Ambrosini doesn't answer or look up, keeps reading for a second or two before Yoann's question registers, and he makes a short questioning sound, so Yoann asks again. This time, Ambrosini does look up, looks at him, and Yoann thinks he smiles a little before turning the book a bit to show him the cover, a blur of something black on a background of blue and white, "I can't actually see what that says, you know."

Looking at the cover himself (as if checking it's the book that he thinks it is), Ambrosini marks his place in the book and puts it aside, finally, almost like he's embarrassed, "Oh, yeah, right –" he begins unfolding his legs, looking like they were much more soundly asleep than either of them, "– it's Il Gattopardo. Know it?" Yoann shakes his head. "No, I don't suppose you would – I take it that it wasn't mandatory reading at the school you went to?" Again, he shakes his head, because he can't really think of anything else to do, or say, "It was at the one I went to," Ambrosini glances at the book now sitting on his nightstand, "I haven't read it in years, though – it's not bad, really. You should give it a go."

"Yeah, I ..." Yoann pauses to reconsider his words, "I might, but ... well, you know," he tries to shrug until he realises that he's lying on one of his shoulders, "Not right now." Ambrosini smiles and repeats his words, the full stop at the end of Yoann's own sentence seeming more final, more definite, still making no move to turn off the lights (he's going to have to ask him). He does, then, "So are you going to turn off the lights at some point?"

Glancing over his shoulder at the small, golden light from the lamp and back at Yoann, Ambrosini makes a sound that reminds Yoann of laughter (of some minor mockery), "What, you can't sleep with the lights on?" He isn't expecting an answer, and Yoann doesn't give him one, just rolls his eyes and turns to lie on his back instead, waiting for Ambrosini to finally turn off the lights. He doesn't, of course (and Yoann is surprised that he actually thought he would), just cocks his head to look at Yoann, half-way smiling, "And why didn't you just say something? I would have turned it off, you know." (Yoann wants to protest that he wouldn't, and doesn't, rolling his eyes again and thinking of turning on his side now, away from Ambrosini), "I'm very sorry about that, Yoann," and Yoann doesn't even have to look to realise that he's moving now, closing his eyes for a minute or two before feeling the dip in the bed that tells him that Ambrosini is sitting next to him now. He's leaning in so his mouth is close to Yoann's ear, lips almost brushing against his cheek, and Yoann feels a slight chill as the covers are pushed aside before Ambrosini's hands come to rest on either side of his head. Then, barely more than a whisper, "What can I do to make it up to you?"

Forcing his eyes open, making himself turn his head slightly to look at Ambrosini (he has to learn to do this someday), he begins, "Well, you could –" And then he stops, because Ambrosini has decided that he isn't going to wait for instructions (Ambrosini rarely does), because Ambrosini's breath is hot against his throat, and his hands are creeping under his shirt, and Yoann isn't particularly interested in turning off the lights anymore. When Ambrosini's mouth reaches his collarbone, Yoann's fingertips edge along the top of his neck, finding small soft hairs and trying to keep himself from pushing and pulling, because Ambrosini doesn't follow instructions (not in situations like these), and Yoann goes unkissed, reminding himself that kisses have nothing to do with this. Instead, he feels a hand tracing the line of his hipbone underneath his boxers, and he hisses when it closes around him, hisses more loudly when it moves a little, and then a little more, too gently and too slowly, and he keeps his eyes open, so he can look into Ambrosini's when he looks up at him and smirks, the pace of his hand quickening, then slowing down, making Yoann finally throw his hips forwards (but not looking away). Ambrosini laughs into the nook between his collarbone and his throat, letting his teeth scrape against the skin there, and Yoann briefly wonders if he'd be enough of a bastard to leave a hickey (he would, he knows he would), but then he doesn't wonder about very much at all, because these things can wait, and Ambrosini's strokes are fast and practiced, and Yoann forgets that he wanted to keep his eyes open.

He finishes with a sigh and a groan, and he barely even notices that Ambrosini leaves and comes back, shoving a towel into his hand and pecking him on the cheek. Awake enough to take the hint, he cleans himself, but drops the towel on the floor (someone will get it in the morning, probably), mumbling as he turns from this side to that, trying to make himself comfortable, "That book you were reading? Can I borrow it when you're done with it?" And though the lights are still on, he falls asleep before he can hear Ambrosini say yes.

Tram.

Fri, 14 Mar 2008 19:23:56 GMT

Title: Tram
Pairing: Alessandro Nesta / Zlatan Ibrahimovic
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine; all lies
Note: for curry_chicken, on the occasion of her birthday

Alessandro Nesta is a man of strong opinions. He has strong opinions on any number of things, and his opinions, while occasionally positive, are mostly negative. He has drawn up a list, though only in his head, (a list with room for expansion, a list in continuous development) of things that would cease to exist immediately if he bloody well had his way (and the world would almost certainly be better off, he reflects, if he had his way more often). His opinion on the merits of tramcars, for example, is largely negative: he believes that they have none, not a single merit, not even the smallest one. While not opposed to the idea of collective transportation in general (although grateful that he doesn’t have to use it) and inclined to like vehicles moving on rails on principle, he has decided that trams are nothing if not downright infernal. When prompted to explain why he holds this view, he will merely note that they’re not safe and leave it at that, even though most people will disagree with him (noting that trams are plenty safe) and inquire politely whether he doesn’t look, perhaps, before he crosses the street?

Whereas Alessandro Nesta is not inclined to answer that question, Zlatan Ibrahimovic certainly is, and he will happily tell the story (parts of it, in bits and pieces carefully kept together by some smoke here and a mirror there, because telling most of the truth is better, Zlatan has learned, than telling none of it); and he will embark on a tale that features no damsels in distress (he is above that sort of insult, even where Nesta is concerned) and no knights in shining armour (because he’d rather not think of himself that way). He’ll make it a long story; he’ll digress once or twice, because he likes telling it, and it’s not a very long one, but he likes to keep telling it. There will be a remark or two concerning the very fine weather (Italy does spring so well), the very fine day; there’ll be plenty of exposition and world-building and all those things that stories are supposed to have before they can get to the point, the problem (catastrophe and denouement and things that Aristotle had words for).

Zlatan knows none of these Aristotelian words, but he knows what a story’s supposed to have, what it’s supposed to do, and he does it for as long as possible: he remembers the name of the street, and the time of day, and he remembers the traffic lights changing (and he will be commended for inventing such vivid details), and then he’ll get to it and tell his story far too quickly, with far too little interest, only pausing to describe the look on Nesta’s face. The look on Nesta’s face when he realised that he was in the tram’s way, the look on his face when he was pulled to safety, and the look on his face when he realised who had just rescued him. Zlatan will inform his audience, those of them who still care, that Nesta didn’t even had the good grace to say thank you, and they’ll believe that he didn’t (who would, in his situation?), and they’ll laugh and tell Zlatan that he’s being smug (of course he is, Zlatan will tell them), and they’ll secretly wish that they could have seen Nesta’s face, because it must have been hilarious. And that, Zlatan will inform, is why Alessandro Nesta hates trams, and no one will be sure if it’s because he was nearly run over by one, or it’s because it was Zlatan Ibrahimovic who made sure that he wasn’t.

It’s early in the evening, and Sandro has started thinking very seriously about getting out of bed at some point, taking a shower, perhaps even telling Zlatan that his company is no longer required, needed, wanted (only to have him laugh in his face, he knows, and stay another two hours). They haven’t said anything in a while, and he takes this is a good thing, half a blessing, because they never were very good at saying nice things to each other (none of them has much of a gift with pleasantries, politenesses, though they’ll soak them up); they’ve just been lying here, moving to adjust arms or legs once in a while, but not often enough to get on each other’s nerves, for once.

Sandro can feel Zlatan’s breath, hot and slow against his throat, and he wonders if he might have fallen asleep, though he knows that he hasn’t. Zlatan never falls asleep (it’s for the weak and the old, he says, and what he means is that it’s for Sandro, though Sandro only ever shrugs when he says it). Watching the shadows move across the ceiling, trying to measure time, telling himself that he’s bored now, Sandro waits; waits seconds and minutes before deciding to move.

"You know –" Sandro feels Zlatan's hold on him tightening, feels a little more weight (just enough that he'd have to make an effort to get up), and knows that he'll be annoyed in a second, as soon as Zlatan finishes that sentence.

("– What?")

"– Well, I'm just saying that you could be a bit more grateful," Sandro decides not to bother, not right now, though he tells himself that it isn't because he thinks he's going to enjoy this, enjoy what he knows is coming, "I did save your life, after all. The least you could do in return is to lie still."

("You don't like it when I lie still," seems to be the obvious answer.)

"Well, I like it right now," Zlatan says, and Sandro shuffles a bit more in response, even if he knows it's too predictable, too easy, even if it makes Zlatan laugh, "I could have just let you get run over by that tram, you know. And then where would you be?"

("At least I wouldn't have you in my hair all the time.")

"No, your hair would probably look even worse than it does now," (Sandro tries not to picture how his hair would look, failing and cringing, then tightening his hold on Zlatan's hair, though he really meant to let go), "And also you'd be dead, which is reason enough to leave anyone alone, I think."

("Being dead sounds nice.")

Zlatan pushes a little further onto Sandro's chest, flinging a leg over both of Sandro's, making himself impossibly heavy, murmuring, "Well, if being dead sounds nice, why don't you play dead, Nesta?" Sandro doesn't, of course he doesn't, but he doesn't take a shower or tell Zlatan to leave either (you can only be so ungrateful).

Trams, Alessandro Nesta has long ago decided, are not safe. Even if you somehow manage not to be run over by them (and that is a concern, he'll maintain), they'll put you in some other more or less precarious situation. Zlatan Ibrahimovic, of course, has a slightly different take one them (but he never did get nearly run over by one, Nesta will point out), and argues that they're really quite quaint, and mentions the fact that most people look where they're going, reminds Nesta that very few people are nearly run over by trams, or run over by trams at all. Neither Ibrahimovic or Nesta will voluntarily bring up the notion (shared by both of them) that nearly being run over by a tram might have a few unforeseen advantages.

Espulsioni.

Sat, 01 Mar 2008 22:50:49 GMT

Title: Espulsioni
Pairing: Massimo Ambrosini / Yoann Gourcuff
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not mine; all lies

His legs begin to fall asleep before he realises that he's been sitting in the same position for far too long, pretending to follow the match, barely bothering to see where the ball's going. He tries to move, thinks about standing up, then decides he'd probably fall over if he did. There's not much point in standing up, in keeping his legs fresh and good to go, because he can count (he knows how many substitutions have been made), he won't be going anywhere. Yoann bends forward a little bit, trying to see the clock (he's forgotten how much time is left, how much time has passed), and has to suppress a sigh when he realises that he'll have to stay where he is for another twenty-five minutes.

It's already been (he thinks) almost five minutes since Ambrosini disappeared down the tunnel, making no sign that he was seeing anything but the air immediately in front of his eyes, and Yoann knows that he has a perfectly good excuse to follow him (he won't be needed here), though he also has plenty of good excuses, good reasons not to follow him. Flexing the muscles in his legs, stretching them a bit (finding them still asleep), and flexing the muscles again, he stands up, looks over the edge, and decides this isn't worth watching, then sits back down (wanting to stand up again). He's not sure how long it takes (he doesn't really think about it), before he excuses himself, though he isn't sure which one of his legion of excuses he goes for this time, and trots down the tunnel himself.

Opening the door to the dressing room, he can hear the shower going, and he can see Ambrosini's clothes and boots and shinguards lying in a messy heap (he finds that oddly comforting), and he sits down on the bench for a second, to take off his shoes, to give himself time to leave. In the end, he pushes his shoes off instead, takes off his jacket. He pauses, then, because he's not sure how much time is left of the match (a quick glance on the wall would tell him), before leaving the rest of his clothes in a pile very similar to the one next to it. Getting up, he makes his way into the showers, quickly at first, then more slowly (he tells himself that the floor will be slippery). Ambrosini has his back to him, drenching under the steady flow of water that's probably far too hot, standing very still, and Yoann finds himself standing just as still for a moment, unsure what to do next, how to approach him, until Ambrosini says (Yoann could swear he hasn't seen him move, hasn't seen him look), "Well, that took you long enough, didn't it?"

"I ..." He has no reply ready for this (he didn't have any words ready at all, because words weren't part of what plan he did have), so instead he just waits for Ambrosini to turn around, to acknowledge his presence with more than words (wondering why he doesn't), waits while Ambrosini raises his hands to rinse the last of something out of his hair, forgetting what exactly it was that Ambrosini had asked him, before deciding that he's waited long enough (trying not to slip on the wet tiles as he moves forward). He does slip, a little bit, miscalculates once or twice, but he doesn't fall, doesn't make a sound as he comes up behind Ambrosini, walking slowly to give him time to turn around, to make the move for him. It occurs to Yoann that he really shouldn't be surprised that he doesn't (it's what he always does), so he makes up his mind, definitely and completely, with a few steps left, just to be sure that he knows what he's going to do (be sure that he's actually going to do it).

So when he's close enough (as close as he needs to be), he puts his hands on Ambrosini's hips, finding the bones under taut skin and squeezing, not as hard as he can, but hard enough, letting his mouth find Ambrosini's neck and biting as softly as he can (he doesn't know any other way than the mere suggestion of teeth), telling himself not to wait for a reaction, telling himself not to flinch away from the water (far warmer than it should be). He gets a reaction, all the reaction that he needs, when Ambrosini bends his neck, a bit to the side, a bit forwards, so Yoann keeps going, moves closer, until their shoulders are touching, until Yoann can fell the water trailing down his back, into his mouth. Pressing himself closer (giving all the evidence of his impatience that he needs to give), he thinks he hears a sigh, then, much clearer, the sound of Ambrosini's quiet laughter as he feels a hand closing around his wrist, feels the pull and the push, and a hot water-pipe against his back as Ambrosini does what he almost always does, not quite slamming him against the wall, not quite kissing him (tongue and teeth replacing each other, again and again, until he wants to reach up and hold him still, by his neck, by his hair).

They don't have enough time, he knows (twenty minutes have turned into ten, could have turned into five, could be even less), not enough time for very much of anything, so when he feels Ambrosini's hand, unhesitating and determined, like he knows exactly what they're doing and how much time they have to do it (he knows even less than Yoann, he thinks, briefly), he makes an effort, concentrates, and does the same for Ambrosini. Neither of them bother much with excess movement, with more than involuntary jerks of their hips and practiced hands, with much gentleness or roughness or anything unnecessary but groans pressed into the other's mouth. Ambrosini is the first to shudder and let the tenseness leave his shoulders, smiling (Yoann thinks, supposes that's what it feels like) some relief into his neck and speeding up enough that Yoann follows (minutes, seconds) after, leaning against him until some small change in the sounds from the stadium tell him that they probably won't be alone much longer.

Yoann could have sworn that Ambrosini chuckles as he lets go and turns around (kisses him almost politely), not slipping very much at all on the wet floor, "Let's go and hear if we lost, hmm?" Yoann supposes that they might as well.

Sartre.

Mon, 25 Feb 2008 18:19:19 GMT

Title: Sartre
Pairing: Massimo Ambrosini / Yoann Gourcuff
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not mine; all lies

If Yoann is going to be perfectly honest with himself (but he's disliked doing that for quite some time now), it isn't the most riveting work of fiction he's ever read, this book. He can tell that it's very interesting, and probably very smart as well, and he's sure that he'd appreciate it more if he was trying to fall asleep, but he isn't (though he doesn't like saying that he's trying to stay awake). It isn't in fashion to call this sort of book tedious, or dull, or anything like that; at least, he doesn't know anyone who thinks it's in fashion, though he isn't entertaining any illusions about his own fashion sense (or anybody else's, for that matter), and he isn't really sure that he should be reading this sort of book at all. So he reads one paragraph and begins the next before realising that he only looked at the words (not bothering to put the letters together, into words and sentences and anything close to meaning), starts again and repeats the exercise, turning the page once in a while, hoping that Ambrosini won't notice.

He supposes that it should give him pause, some short pause, that Ambrosini isn't even in the room (isn't there to notice); retreated to the bathroom some thirty minutes ago (9:41 minus 9:09, the alarm clock tells him) and has yet to emerge; he supposes that he shouldn't be pretending to read when there isn't even anyone to fool (though he doesn't think that Ambrosini would buy it). He keeps reading and rereading, skimming and skimming again, picking up one word there, another somewhere else, telling himself that it'll give him some idea, of something, of anything; that he'll be able to say he read it when he reaches the final page, finishes bending the back. When he hears the bathroom door opening (9:44), he looks up only briefly, briefly enough to notice wet hair and tracksuit bottoms, looking back down before he lets himself notice anything else, concentrating on each and every word now.

"What are you reading?" The question barely registers, because they haven't said anything for hours, because he isn't expecting him to ask (expects him to notice instead, notice and comment, and make Yoann wish he'd brought something else instead), so he doesn't answer, doesn't even realise that words have been uttered before the book slips between his fingers and is suddenly in Ambrosini's hands (under discerning eyes), before being tossed carelessly on the nightstand, "Don't you think you're a bit too old to be that French, Yoann?"

There must be clever retorts to that sort of remark, retorts that might easily be dreamed up, but Ambrosini is sitting on the edge of a bed now, and Yoann would push him, tell him to go sit on his own damn bed, except that he doesn't, because Ambrosini isn't sitting far enough away for him to be doing that (far too close for any sort of comfort), studying the book again, "You like that kind of book, do you?" Yoann would protest that he doesn't, not really, but he's not sure how to say it (how to avoid sounding like he doesn't know anything, even if Ambrosini already knows that), "I might have something that you'd like. Something a bit less –" and he looks from the book to Yoann, "- tedious."

Still not sure what to say (tell him how nice that would be, how much he'd appreciate it), Yoann edges across the bed a bit, further away from Ambrosini (not, he reminds himself, to see what he'll do, if he'll follow). Ambrosini doesn't follow, doesn't move at all, not for the longest time, just keeps looking at him, and Yoann thinks that the nicest word he can think of to describe Ambrosini's look is unreserved (reservation, his good upbringing has taught him, is never a bad thing), until he feels a hand under his knee, half-tickling (half-pulling, half-nudging), and he finds himself as close to Ambrosini as he was before, and it tells him as much as he needs to know, so he leans in (ever closer) for it, not closing his eyes before feeling lips touching his own, softly and slowly, and it feels very much like a lover's kiss, except that their eyes are open for a reason.

It's later than it should be, too late for this sort of thing, (there are rules about rest and bedtimes), so Yoann expects it to be quick and to the point, because they've no time for all of this nonsense (most days, Ambrosini would say so himself), but Ambrosini seems in no hurry, dwells for a minute or two before leaning slightly further forwards, parting Yoann's lips with his tongue, unhurried and surprisingly gentle, hands almost still at his side. Losing patience (sooner rather than later), Yoann's hands find the back of Ambrosini's neck, strands of hair between his fingers, trying to push himself nearer, pull Ambrosini closer, kiss him harder.

Ambrosini moves a little, but less than he wanted him to, lifting only one of his hands to touch Yoann's jaw, moving his mouth away (fingers clenching a little against his skin, when Yoann tries to follow him, tries not to break contact), and Yoann can feel his breath against his throat, his breath and (he tells himself) his teeth and his tongue, before hearing a low, distinct mumble, "What else have you read by him, then, hmm?" Yoann tries not to answer (tries to suggest other topics) and feels a hand on his hip, firmly holding him still (and doesn't say much in the end), as Ambrosini continues, "He's written other, less annoying books, you know," (Yoann isn't sure whether it's a laugh or kiss that he feels), "But they would have taught you about that in school, wouldn't they? Though maybe they taught the other, more annoying books instead."

Part of him wishes that he'd noticed how it happened, how Ambrosini's hand wound up there, but Yoann feels a hand tug at the back of his t-shirt, pulling it over his head, and he stretches out his arms to make it easier (feeling the cold for only a second), tossing it aside as quickly as he can, (though Ambrosini still takes his time). Both hands on his hips now, Ambrosini's lips continue along his collarbone, and Yoann arches into it only a little (recognising the futility of trying to set the pace), almost laughing when Ambrosini keeps talking, "Really, there are better books, even if you must read all of this dull stuff," turning his head, adjusting the angle to continue up the other collarbone and down Yoann's chest, "Have you read Camus?"

His fingers back in Ambrosini's hair, he tries very hard not to push him downwards, tries very hard not to nod (he can tell by the smile flickering across Ambrosini's face that he does), "Camus is much funnier, don't you think?" Yoann never gave it much thought, but he knows that he nods again, (though he isn't sure how it might encourage Ambrosini to stop talking). "Not The Stranger, of course," Ambrosini finally decides to start pushing Yoann onto his back with a warm hand against his shoulder, the other still tightly gripping his hip, "That's as depressing as anything," but now, Yoann's pants and boxers are being removed, and fingers are curling around him (he's sure he can feel hot, damp breath), so he's not sure what Ambrosini says next, ("But Sisyphus has its moments, doesn't it?"), before finally shutting up.

He's as close as he can be, letting himself push into Ambrosini's mouth recklessly (recklessly hoping that Ambrosini won't mind, much), when the hands return to his hips, holding him as still as he can be held at this point, and Ambrosini starts talking again (and Yoann starts cursing every deity he's ever heard of), "In all honesty, though," he begins, and Yoann isn't sure what he's talking about at first, "You'd be much better off reading De Beauvoir," Ambrosini pauses to bite his shoulder, leaning over him, settling their bodies against each other, "If you must read one of that bunch, that is."

Most of Ambrosini's weight on him now, keeping him nearly still, Yoann feels his legs being forced apart (feels Ambrosini against his hip, through the fabric of his tracksuit bottoms), "She even manages to make the Marquis de Sade almost bearable," teeth against his throat before pushing up on his elbows, looking straight at him, "But perhaps you quite enjoy the Marquis de Sade?" Yoann doesn't know what to say (he never plucked up the courage to read de Sade), but he's kissed soundly, quickly, Ambrosini's tongue in his mouth before he even realises that he's being kissed (the kiss ending before he can kiss him back), then hearing his voice close to his hear, "Hands and knees, carino."

Feeling Ambrosini roll off him, roll off the bed, Yoann finds that he's done as he was told before Ambrosini returns to kneel between his legs, vaguely registering (eyes only half-closed) more pale skin being exposed as Ambrosini pushes down his pants before he sinks onto his elbows (wondering when Ambrosini will start talking again). The fluid is cold against his skin, but Ambrosini's hands are warm and there, on his back, at his side, and Ambrosini doesn't say word (about books, about anything), hushing his fists unclenched, before pulling back his hips, letting Yoann arch into it. Burying his head in his hands (trying to remember to keep moving, trying to remember how), Yoann feels arms curling around him as Ambrosini begins to move more quickly, and hears breathing as ragged as his own. It doesn't take very long (not once they got to it), and Yoann doesn't need Ambrosini's help to finish (doesn't need his own help either), just feels his arms, his legs give way a little as Ambrosini's does the same, short grunts answering each other before they're both quiet and still. A kiss is pressed into the skin between his shoulderblades before Ambrosini lets go and lifts himself off the bed, retreating to his own bed, and leaving Yoann to collapse in a heap of limbs, barely bothering to pull the covers over himself before dozing off.

As Ambrosini reaches to turn off the lights, he turns towards Yoann again, almost like they were in the middle of a conversation, "Have you read Beckett, then?" Yoann shifts, onto his side, away from Ambrosini, making only the smallest of disinterested sounds, and falls asleep.

Le Scale.

Thu, 21 Feb 2008 19:35:30 GMT

Title: Le Scale
Pairing: Paolo Maldini / Alessandro Nesta (Zlatan Ibrahimovic / Alessandro Nesta)
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine; all lies
Note: the castle in question is Château de Chambord

When Paolo was very young (he doesn't quite remember the year, though he knows it must have been an uneven one, 1973 or 1975), his parents had taken his sister and him, and no one else, no other attention-demanding siblings, on a trip. They'd put their bags in the car, and everyone else had gone to stay with friends and grandparents (and he'd felt so special that he was coming along, he was going with mamma and papa), and they'd driven for far longer than he'd ever driven before. His parents had told him they were going to France, and it would be a little while before they got there, but he wasn't sure where France was, or how long it took to get there, and his mother had to tell him that they'd turn back if he wouldn't sit still and behave.

Later on, he's worked out which part of France they'd gone to (asked curious questions about this place he vaguely remembered seeing, suddenly realising when listening to conversations that he'd been to this place or that), why it had seemed to take so long (it must have, taking the kids in the car, back in the mid-seventies), but the only thing that really remained with him, a clear and defined shape, clear and defined even to his five-year-old (seven?) eye, of a staircase, winding up and winding down on two separate paths.

His father had told him that Leonardo had designed it (and he'd been proud that he didn't have to ask who Leonardo was) for the king of France who had lived there, (he'd asked where the king of France lived now, he remembers, and he'd been disappointed when told that there were no kings of France any more), when this had been the grandest castle in all the world, because that was the sort of castle where kings lived. When his father had explained – the queen would be on her way up one of the stairs, and the king and his mistress would hear, so the mistress would sneak down the other stairs, unnoticed and uncaught – winking and grinning, his mother had made a sharp remark on the sort of things you taught young children, and his father had ruffled his hair and talked about Leonardo for a bit more (and Paolo hadn't mentioned that he wasn't sure what mistress meant). He'd wondered, though, how the king and mistress had known which stair the queen had taken, how they knew which one to choose (and why the queen never looked through all the windows that let you see the other half); his father never did answer those questions, even though he asked them, tentatively, as they made their way up one stairway and down the other, or perhaps he had answered them, and he'd only forgotten, like he'd forgotten almost all the rest of that summer.

-

He remembers it now, remembers the double stairway (trying to sneak down more quietly then he'd gone up), thinks of it almost every time he rings Sandro, and finds himself imagining that there's a rushed, nervous tone to Sandro's voice (like he's expecting someone else's call, like he was talking to someone else only minutes ago), imagining that Sandro would much rather be talking to someone else. He knows, of course, even though he's never heard footsteps (even though they haven't put a foot wrong), because Sandro is a terrible liar, and he would, perhaps, rather that he hadn't put a name, a face to it, but he can't help himself (so he does, and he knows he's right).

There doesn't seem to be much point in mentioning it, blunt and forthright, or in roundabout ways that never get to the heart of the matter (the heart of the matter seems like a good thing to be avoiding, to him), so Paolo doesn't bring it up, evades every attempt to be told, avoids certain names, certain places; he measures frequencies and likelihoods, and says the words ' Zlatan Ibrahimovic' exactly as often as he should, exactly as often as someone ignorant of the whole business would, determined to stay that way.

One time, he sees a car leaving, a car of the make and the colour and the stained glass windows that would make it, must make it his, leaving a bit too late for him not to see (and he wonders how many tries that took, to wait long enough, to choose the wrong stairway), and he ignores it, just as he ignores the look on Sandro's face (calls it happy, happy to see him, instead of hopeful) when he sees him, when Sandro's almost sure that they must have been caught, as caught as he's willing to be, willing to risk. Paolo doesn't tell him that he has been (that he's been caught long ago, that he's telling himself not to care), and instead he kisses him exactly like he always does, eyes closed, searching fingers in still-damp hair, more relieved than he should be when Sandro doesn't reject him, but kisses him back, like he means it, like he wants to (and maybe he does), pressing himself as close as humanly possible (Sandro always did), holding on for dear life.

Afterwards, clumsily clinging to each other, feet getting colder without any covers in the wrong end of the bed, their heads too near the edge, almost tipping downwards, Paolo pulls the too-warm duvet over both of them, wrapping his legs around Sandro's; giggles that they're really too old (not randy teenagers any more, he says) to be lying like this, touching the headboard with the soles of their feet; makes light of something, anything, to make sure that Sandro never gets to say what he means to say. (He reminds him, pointedly, or not so pointedly, that you don't say things like that after sex.) Again, Sandro doesn't respond, in so many words, but Sandro never did respond in very many words. He puts his head on Paolo's shoulder, his arm over his hip, and he snores only lightly (they know each other well enough for that), and it's really all the answer that Paolo wants, even if he knows it isn't the right one, the most truthful one.

Then, passing people on the way up broad stairways (they always seem narrower when you're on your way down), he catches a glimpse of someone going down one night (some night, any, somewhere terribly important); sees him above and between the figures crowding the middle of the carpeted, muffled steps, going up on the right side, going down on the left (from his point of view, he remembers). It occurs to him, suddenly, that he might stop, that Ibrahimovic might stop as well, and they might have a quiet word, no louder than the sound of their footsteps on this straight, broad stairway, and they won't need to make such a fuss about passing each other once in a while, on the way out or on the way in (because it's the best he can hope for, he knows). Except that he can't catch his eye, not even when he tries, and Ibrahimovic descends with as little grace as possible, daring the carpet to keep his footsteps noiseless, and Paolo thinks that maybe Ibrahimovic has more to hope for than he does (thinks it might be best not to ask Sandro, not to talk to Ibrahimovic, tempt what little of fate is still friendly to him in this).

-

In retrospect, he reflects that perhaps the double stairway in that French castle (he tries to remember the name, determines to look it up, and doesn't), designed with cunning and grace for intrigue and heartbreak like only the French are supposed to be able to do it, by Italian Leonardo (whose work he is no more familiar with thirty years on, he suspects), was not actually built for the king. The king and his accomplice, Paolo thinks, would have had little use for it. He, on the other hand, finds himself grateful that it's there.

Distrazioni.

Wed, 13 Feb 2008 23:53:40 GMT

Title: Distrazioni
Pairing: Massimo Ambrosini / Yoann Gourcuff
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not mine; all lies

It would make it easier, keeping track, keeping count (knowing exactly how many times he's already lifted the weights, how many more times he has left), if Ambrosini wasn't watching him. He's been watching him, Yoann thinks, for at least thirty minutes now, though it could be more (but probably not less): from across the room, out of the corner of his eye, then a little closer, sneaking glances every now and again, (making Yoann wish that Brocchi would just leave, making him wish that Brocchi would stay when he does leave). And now Ambro is sitting on the bench, not two yards away from him, and Yoann isn't sure he's even blinking. Yoann catches himself murmuring out loud, trying not to lose count again, even if he knows that this count will reveal how many he's lost already, "Vingt-deux, vingt-trois, vingt-quatre ..."

"Cinquanta-sei, actually," Yoann's arms stop moving, and he lets the weights he's holding force them downwards until they reach the floor, and he watches Ambrosini get up, slowly and deliberately, watches him kneel and pick the weight out of his hands, placing them unhurriedly on the shelf, before turning back towards him, "You've done fifty-six of them." He cocks his head sidewards, "Which should just about do it, don't you think?" It briefly crosses Yoann's mind that he might go for a denial, might claim that he meant to do more (a hundred, two hundred), but he isn't sure how to go about such a denial (how to make it plausible, acceptable), so he sits up straight, balancing on the edge of his seat, not quite sure what to do with himself while Ambrosini looks at him from all of three yards away (looking for all the world like he's plotting something).

When Ambrosini moves (though it seems to take minutes before he does), Yoann still doesn't know what to do with himself, where to go, whether getting up and leaving is even an option at this point, so he backs away, further into his seat, until the edge of it tickles the backs of his knees. Ambrosini is already standing above him, one hand resting far too lightly on his shoulder, the other hesitating before wiping the sweat off his upper lip, running a hand through his hair (making Yoann look up at him). Placing a tentative hand on Ambrosini's hip, trying to guess what he wants, Yoann looks at every other part of his face than the eyes, because he can feel himself blushing already (and he imagines that Ambrosini might not notice, if only he doesn't really look at him). Ambrosini probably does notice, because Yoann feels his hand slowly removed from where it was resting (a warm, firm hand crushing his fingers together), and Ambrosini kneels in front of him gracefully enough that he thinks he must have practiced it. There's a hand on his knee now, teasing around the joint (he thinks it should tickle him, but it doesn't), pulling him closer, and the other hand, the one on his shoulder, is tracing a pattern up his neck.

He has to look down now, just little bit, to look at any other part of Ambrosini's face than his eyes, and he can feel himself blushing more as he can feel fingers curl around his neck and into his hair, pulling his head forwards and downwards. Not very far, really, just far enough for Ambrosini to reach up and kiss him, open-eyed and open-mouthed, and Yoann tries to keep his eyes open, but fails when Ambrosini's mouth leaves his, aimlessly wandering towards his ear, down his neck (fails when he realises how sweaty he must be), fails when a thumb slides up the inside of his thigh (you're not meant to keep your eyes open at times like those, he tells himself), and he remembers that if Ambrosini's hand moves even further up, he'll get caught (Ambrosini will know that he's half-way there already). When he feels a chuckle against his neck, between a tongue and some teeth, Yoann knows why Ambrosini's laughing, even before he says it, "You blush so prettily, Yoann, you should do it some more." It's a strange sort of reflex, to be nodding, but that's what he does; he nods breathlessly and automatically at whatever words come out of Ambrosini's mouth, though he stops when he feels both hands at his sweatpants, at his boxers, around him, "Let's see if this will make you blush a bit more, eh?"

There's one last bite, one last kiss to his neck, before Ambrosini's mouth disappears; before his hands finally succeed in pushing both pants and boxers far enough out of the way, and Yoann can feel something warmer and wetter than a hand. His hands are in Ambrosini's hair now, and he's afraid that he'll pull too hard (afraid that he'll pull so hard that Ambrosini will stop), but he can't help himself, just as he can't help looking down, squint past his own hands entangled in blonde hair, and he knows that the sight of Ambrosini's mouth and tongue is making him blush that much more (and he knows that Ambrosini's eyes are open, observing this, and there's a smirk somewhere on that face), so he closes his eyes again, and bucks his hips, and it's over before he knows.

Tugging boxers back in place, sweatpants, leaving everything in order, everything as he found it, while Yoann breathes in and out, telling his muscles, his lungs to relax, and tries not open his eyes (because he knows it's not just blush any more), but still catches a glimpse of a wry smile before Ambrosini kisses him squarely on the mouth, getting up much more faster than he went down, saying, "I'm really not sure that particular shade of red really becomes you, though."

After Ambrosini has left the gym (unhurriedly and inconspicuously, only slightly less sweaty than he should be after leaving the gym), Yoann lies back on the bench for a second before remembering what he's forgotten, then gets up and finds the weights again, exactly where Ambrosini had put them, and begins counting again (failing to keep count again, starting over every time he gets to ten), "Un, deux, trois ..."

Cotton.

Wed, 13 Feb 2008 19:03:24 GMT

Title: Cotton
Pairing: Christian Vieri / Filippo Inzaghi
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Not mine; all lies
Note: This is for rose_of_rouen who asked what Bobo would be doing in twenty years - and I said that he'd be dancing the funky chicken with Pippo on their tenth wedding anniversary (though this is, fortunately, not exactly what they're doing)

It seems a peculiar sort of blessing, finding a lonely plate with a half-eaten piece of cake left on it, and because he only had one piece (because he meant to get more, but found that all the cake had gone), and because he had more than one glass of wine, much more, Bobo doesn't really think about whose piece of cake this might have been before it became his, and he sits down one of one the errant chairs (not even close to a table any more), and starts eating it with someone else's fork.

There was a time, he remembers, when the sight of this sort of devastation (and it doesn't seem that devastating, really, when he considers what sort of devastation he used to leave in his wake) would barely even have made him shrug, because he'd never once cleaned up after a party, and he didn't mean to try it, he didn't have to try it. He still doesn't, because there are still people for that kind of thing, just as there were people to bring the food and the wine and make sure that there were chairs and tables enough and lights in their cake (because cake isn't cake without lights in it).

Now, though, he surveys the mess that it took them no more than eight short hours to make, and he's not sure whether he'd rather be tired because it's only four in the morning, or because the sight of this sort of mess makes him a little bit tired. Not much, all things considered (because it is four in the morning, and he isn't twenty-two any more, loath as he is to admit that), but enough to make him sigh and hope that it will have disappeared when he wakes up. It won't have, he knows, because they still like sleeping in, if they can, and there won't be people to make the mess magically disappear until sometime past noon. The thought of not leaving bed until much later than that, of making Pippo get showered and open the door for them and take care of whatever needs to be taken care of seems far more attractive than it should (and he knows that it'll probably be the other around, in the end).

He hears Pippo coming up from behind, and half-turns to look at him when he pulls up a chair and sits down next to him, thigh to thigh, ankle to ankle (feeling Pippo's head land heavily on his shoulder). He's about to protest that it's not a sign of good upbringing, though he figures it's too late for that sort of thing, to be carrying around an open bottle but no glasses, when his fork is snatched out of his fingers and becomes Pippo's fork (and he thinks about telling a minor lie: say it was Mutu's first, and get to keep it like that) and a piece of the cake vanishes into Pippo's mouth, "You had two pieces, didn't you?" Pippo's reply is a sound that seems more affirmative than denying (there's not point in denials), so Bobo takes back the fork and eats another bite, "You shouldn't eat so much cake, it isn't good for you."

"I don't eat that much cake," Pippo fingers curl around the fork again, but this time Bobo refuses to let go, watching Pippo's mouth form a pout, warm fingers still between his, until Bobo rolls his eyes, leans over to kiss him as he lets go of the fork for good. He can feel Pippo smiling when he wins the fork (but there will be other, better times to get back at him), so he shifts back into his seat while Pippo continues, "And you've been saying that it isn't good for me for, what?, thirty years now?"

("Thirty-five, I think.")

"Well, have I gained weight yet?" Pippo's already finishing the last of the cake in three hurried bites while Bobo reaches out a hand, pokes Pippo's no-longer-quite-white shirt where he'll feel ribs; they don't feel like they used to, etched right underneath his skin, defining the shape of his body at certain angles (when he used to lie next to him, half on his side, half on his back, a bony-framed silhouette in their bed), but they're still there, a little more pronounced than he supposes they should be, though Pippo will shrug and claim that old habits are harder to break when Bobo tells him he should, that a few more pounds wouldn't hurt him.

"I'd say you've gained about ..." and he counts how many ribs he can feel, "... three pounds. You're obviously getting fat, Inzaghi."

"Oh, dear," the plate is placed so unceremoniously on the flat that Bobo is surprised that it doesn't break (though he doesn't look down to check), and Pippo takes a swig of the bottle, a champagne that is neither cold nor very bubbly any more, before handing it to Bobo, "Whatever will we do?"

"Well," Bobo tries the champagne as well (because he's not about to grow out of doing that), and holds it between his thighs, contemplating Pippo's neck before bending sidewards to kiss it, briefly regretting that Pippo cut off his hair, "You need to get some exercise. It's the only possible –" he breaks off, giggling enough that he decides he must be a bit drunk, "– Did you see what your mum got us, by the way?"

It makes Pippo giggle too (and Bobo finds it comforting that they're at least not too old for that, even if they're supposed to be too old for just about everything else), "It's the thought that counts, Bobo."

"You know, it's actually the thought that disturbs me, Pippo," (Pippo's attempt at an inquiring sound isn't quite as dignified as he's sure it was meant to be), "Your mother gave us bed linen, Pippo. Egyptian cotton bed linen. And it's beige."

"Very thoughtful present, really," Bobo's not quite sure whether Pippo's tone is a joking one, "It's nice bed linen, too, and really just the sort of thing you'd give people at their wedding anniversary," he's about to remark that it might be the sort of thing that Pippo's mother would give almost anyone else at their wedding anniversary when Pippo continues, a little more quietly, "She's come a long way, you know."

He's not quite sure when his hand found Pippo's, but he squeezes it now, "Yeah, I know. She has." Staggering slightly, he gets to his feet, pulling at Pippo's hand to make him follow, watching as he does, even more uncertainly, as if testing his legs for malfunctions before trusting them completely (then still stumbling a little bit), clutching the bottle by one hand, Pippo by another, "Let's go to bed."

As they walk up the stairs, much more slowly than either of them normally would, because the steps seem a little higher (a centimeter or so, only enough to make it less familiar), Pippo pauses for a moment, feet not quite resting on different steps, "Hey, this was a great party, wasn't it?"

Tugging at Pippo's hand, to make him follow, Bobo replies, "Yeah. It was a fantastic party."

Sottigliezze.

Sun, 10 Feb 2008 21:27:40 GMT

Title: Sottigliezze
Pairing: Massimo Ambrosini / Yoann Gourcuff
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not mine; all lies

There are smarter things he could be doing, surely, than lingering in the dressing room, taking unnecessary minutes to tie shoelaces, looking for things in his bag that he knows aren't there (hoping that no one will notice). Yoann would rather not admit that he's waiting, stalling, betting that his chances will increase the longer he stays, the more people nod and leave. And then he's alone, wondering if there was a chance, if it was there and he missed it; he's on his way out of the door when he realises that he doesn't have his car keys.

Turning around (he thinks he knows where he left them), he doesn't hear the door opening behind him, doesn't see who comes in, but he feels fingers digging into his arm, pulling enough that he almost stumbles, until he hits the wall and it steadies him, thinking he hears something fall to the ground, another hand (this one his shoulder) keeping him from falling, and someone's face close enough to his that he can't make out the details of it, though he knows who it is, and not just by the colour of the eyes (blue, blue, blue) looking into his. Yoann tries telling himself to relax, tries to remember why he welcomes this, waits for it, but he can't, and Ambrosini's grip around his arm tightens, "I thought you might have a moment or two," (Yoann finds it unexpectedly difficult to parse out the words of his clipped Italian), "Since you were taking your time just now."

Too dry-mouthed to swallow, though his throat seems intent on doing so, Yoann collects what's left of his grammar (volere: voglio, vuoi, vuole –), "Yes, I – what do you –?" and that's as far as he gets, because they both know exactly what Ambrosini wants, and they both know that Yoann isn't about to stop him, so instead Ambrosini just shoves his hips into Yoann's (and Yoann has the good grace to blush that he's this hard already), and kisses him, biting at his lips. The hand around his arm is still there, holding it at an awkward angle, not letting him move, but his other hand, the one he can move, is tugging at Ambrosini's neck (he wishes his nails were longer, long enough that they'd leave marks on him), and he can feel Ambrosini's hand through his jeans now. Pushing himself forwards, knowing it isn't the best strategy, he catches a handful of hair between his fingers, tries to bring Ambrosini closer, only to feel the familiar tuggings of a smile against his mouth (the removal of a hand and its placement elsewhere, holding his other arm still). He doesn't let go of the hair, not until he has to.

"You –" and Ambrosini snaps at his lower lip, almost digging in his teeth, "speak very bad Italian -" his diction so clear that Yoann wants to slap him, "and you're far more eager –" now the hands holding him still finally shift, just enough for Ambrosini to turn him around and push him back against this wall, then hissing into his ear, "than you should be." The hands are at his hips now, and he can feel lips and warm breath and laughter against his shoulder; he doesn't know what to do with his own hands now, he never does, so he clenches them, makes his fists as hard as possible, and braces himself (thinking that maybe his nails are long enough to have left evidence on Ambrosini's neck). One of Ambrosini's legs is between his, nudging them apart, and Yoann might fool himself that he's being gentle, making the effort, except as he's being tugged backwards, coming to rest (almost) on the wall between wrists and elbows (spreading out fingers, then fisting them again), but the work that is made of his jeans and boxers, slid only as far as mid-thigh, is too fast, too unrushed, and he doesn't dare move as Ambrosini picks something up from the floor. And he doesn't move, barely even to breathe, when he feels him bending over his back, preparing him; he doesn't move, not until Ambrosini leans so close that he could kiss him, and asks, "Ready?" Then, Yoann nods.

It doesn't hurt, not as much as it used to when they did this (the first few times, when they weren't exactly sure what they were doing, how you went about these things), and he closes his eyes and pushes back when Ambrosini pushes forwards and nearly bites his tongue to stop himself from making any sounds, any small choked-back noises (to prove that he can), when he feels a hand reaching around to help him, something very much like a kiss under his ear. They don't take very long; they can't afford to, not in a place like this (the cleaning lady will be here any minute now), but Yoann still finds one of Ambrosini's hands and clutches it, squeezes as hard as he can, when he finishes, and there's an arm around him, a forehead against his shoulder, for a little longer than necessary as Ambrosini does the same. They stay like that for a moment (a minute or two), all hitching breaths and spasming muscles, before straightening up, straightening clothes, smiling almost apologetically, trying to think of appropriate things to say.

"You know, Yoann," Ambrosini bends down to pick up his bag, looking slightly amused (and Yoann doesn't doubt what the source of his amusement is), "You're really not being very subtle when you mope about the dressing room for half an hour, trying to tie your shoes," he leans in to kiss his cheek, lightly and (Yoann thinks) sweetly, "Ci vediam'."

Scoreline.

Fri, 01 Feb 2008 13:24:07 GMT

Title: Scoreline
Pairing: Rui Costa / Hidetoshi Nakata (if you squint)
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Not mine; all lies
Note: Completely abortive attempt at Rui/Hide - based on this - set during the 2004/2005 season: Milan won their home game against Fiorentina in December by 6-0, and the return leg in April by 1-2

There are harder things and easier things to do than putting his arm around his waist, digging his fingers into the fabric of his jersey and holding on. He could say something, for example; that would be harder (because there isn't much to say, not much to offer, because apologetic smiles will do little, and he knows of no football wisdom that seems good enough for this), or he could take off his own jersey, exchange it for his, and be done with it, having shown that bit of token sympathy, and it would be easier. Harder and easier, and in the end, he puts his arm around Nakata's waist without a word, and feels Nakata's arm go around his neck, and Rui thinks that this was probably the best choice out of the ones given him.

They walk together, like that, an odd couple following an odd pace, because they're not exactly the same height, their legs aren't exactly the same length (and if anything, he should have his arm around Nakata's neck, Nakata should have his around Rui's waist), so they wobble along towards the tunnel, and it doesn't really feel so very awkward; it doesn't really feel like there could be any other way for them to move off the pitch than like this, together.

Reaching the tunnel, and not letting go, not yet, Rui turns his head, just enough to see Nakata's face, to see the rueful smile he's wearing on it (not quite trusting himself to comment on it), but Nakata sees him turning, catches his eye, and the smile becomes ironic (at least Rui thinks it's irony), and he says, not quite under his breath, "Yeah, I know – that's football for you." And Rui knows, but he's glad he doesn't have to say it, because it sounds less wrong coming from Nakata; it sounds more like football might actually just be football, and he can't help tightening his hold instead of letting go like he should, gripping the jersey a little harder, feeling the sweat between his fingers.

They've gone far enough now, slowly enough, that they'll have to let go, because Rui's going this way, and Nakata's going that way, so they stand still instead (waiting for the other to start letting go). Nakata doesn't let go, though, doesn't even loosen his hold, but he leans slightly into Rui, only so much that he feels a little bit of weight shifting, the pressure on his shoulder becoming marginally heavier, and Nakata doesn't look in his direction (doesn't seem to look at anything in particular), "I think I might be getting used to it."

Rui thinks he knows what he's talking about (but not what he means, not how it feels), so he asks, because it isn't really a stupid question, "Used to what?"

"To football," and Nakata looks at him, looking for all the world like he can't quite find the words (and maybe he can't, maybe he has to struggle to find the words, then struggle to translate them), "To football, you know, football being football. You get used to it after a while."

"You learn to ..." Rui pauses, because he doesn't know, after all, what other people learn (only what he himself has learned), which valuable lessons they take from defeating old clubs like this, from losing by such numbers, "At least I learned to," the word escapes him (the Portuguese word, the Italian word), "to cope with it, I suppose. I don't know if you get used to it."

Nakata's smile, this time, doesn't strike him as rueful or ironic, though he isn't sure if he's right, and the weight on his shoulder begins to feel lighter until he realises the arm is gone (and his own fingers no longer clutching wet fabric, but sliding across Nakata's back as he turns towards him, his arm finally falling to his side), and Nakata is in front of him, an inch or two shorter than he is, "You know, that's nice, actually. Not getting used to it," Rui decides the smile is exactly what he thinks it is, "But I think I am."

His instinct tells him to move closer to Nakata (but putting his arm around no longer seems as simple, and the palm of his hand still feels wet with someone else's sweat), for comfort, for closeness, though he isn't sure why those things would be necessary, be needed. He doesn't, because he's not very good with words, not like this, so he thinks of formulaic phrases that might work, that might be good in situations like these, and tries not to shrug, tries to look at Nakata and not the floor, "I suppose that's how it goes."

If Rui didn't know any better, and he isn't sure that he really does, he'd say that Nakata's smile seems ironic (but not half-hearted) again, "That's how it goes." And then they're moving in different directions, exchanging polite words, before turning their backs on each other.

-

Months later, at the return leg in Florence, Rui (still in his kit, still unshowered) runs into Nakata again (not in his kit, elegant and friendly) in a corridor, and this time, though he can't tell if it's the easy or the hard way of doing things, he puts both his arms around him, and Nakata doesn't seem to mind the grime, the sweat. They don't talk about the game, about the score (it will be an easier score, they both think); they don't really talk very much at all.

Pietà.

Tue, 22 Jan 2008 23:01:02 GMT

Title: Pietà
Pairing: Andriy Shevchenko / Ricky Kakà
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine; all lies
Note: Originally written for amorispure for the footballslash Secret Santa exchange

(i)

Crossing the Alps behind the closed curtains of a business class window seat (he always asks for aisle seats, except on night flights, because he doesn't like the idea of looking out, looking down, seeing where he's going), shifting uncertainly in something that only vaguely reminds him of what a chair should be, all softness and smoothness, and never quite finding the right temperature, taking off his jumper, then putting it back on, feeling too warm and too cold. There's someone sitting next to him (next to the way you sit next to someone on business class; not close enough to talk, not close enough to touch), or Andriy would have asked to sit by the aisle, invented some excuse about being prone to airsickness and proximity to bathrooms to appease the ever-fussy flight attendant. He'd asked for the aisle seat at the check-in, but the girl had been busy and he had been softspoken, and they always ask for window seats (so that was what he got); he never did summon the energy to tell her she was wrong when she gave him his boarding pass.

He lifts the curtain slightly, knowing exactly what he'll see (he can't count how many times he's crossed these European mountains); familiar white peaks whose unfamiliarity, once upon a time, he barely even remembers; caught in the act, though he's not sure which act that is, he closes the curtain again as the flight attendant asks him if he'd like anything else (he hadn't heard her coming).

Malpensa, drab and brown and even more like a Tuesday morning than he remembers it, even less efficient, never confuses him at all (not the way Heathrow does), and he slips back into Italian almost too easily, too seamlessly, and for once, he lets himself use the word homesick, even if he always hesitated in calling this a home (he's learnt to say this in English: home is where the heart is; but he hasn't learnt believing it). A taxi takes him by roads he used to take alone into the centre of the city, faster than it would in London, though it takes longer, and only after he's paid the taxi driver does he remember to notice whether he looks at him strangely, looks at him like he doesn't belong.

Andriy never stops feeling excited, feeling like he's venturing into uncharted territory, every time he checks into a hotel (all by himself); checking into a hotel in this city (where he once had a house of his very own) feels nothing like that, but he doesn't suppose he expected it to.

(ii)

He wears something nice for dinner (his cotton shirt feels crisp and fresh, and he remembers not to wear white, knowing he'll spill if he does, spill all sorts of things), though he's sure it isn't necessary, sure that the restaurant won't blame him for looking casual (another set of words he's learnt:casual, smart casual, black tie and white), sure that Ricky wouldn't want him to try and look formal, look more out of place than he is already, and he tucks the shirt in and out of his trousers until it wrinkles, and he decides not to tuck it back in, not to indulge in another try. Going downstairs ten minutes too early, he almost has a drink (vodka, cold and untempered), and never decides against it (but never has one either).

They meet like they used to, and they clasp each other's hands heartily, emphatically unawkwardly, and they both believe that's because it's the way it is, the way it always used to be, and neither of them wishes to argue with such an easy truth. They sit like they used to, order what they used to, talk about (more or less) the same things that they always talked about. The list of names they mustn't mention is so long and so old that one of them slips up, almost imperceptibly, the word past his lips already when Andriy remembers, seconds later, what that name means between the two of them. Ricky pauses for a second, fiddles his napkin (as if actually unsure), then moves along, only acknowledging half of Andriy's words (and Andriy supposes he should feel relieved).

Watching the restaurant fill up and empty out, waiting for the staff to lose patience with them, to inform them that the establishment will be closing, that it already has closed (except you don't say that too loudly to famous, rich people), running out of old games to talk about, old games that neither of them played in, Andriy begins, "Should we ...?", hesitating, then taking the safer road, at least for now, "Maybe we should get some dessert? Some panettone?"

He can see Ricky's shoulders tensing into half a shrug before he remembers himself (Ricky always remembers himself), and he smiles, broadly and honestly, like he does for his teammates or his fans or anyone with a camera, "Well, I suppose it is the season, isn't it?"

When the waiter (slightly annoyed, but hiding it well) asks if they'll be having a glass of spumante with their dessert, Andriy almost says yes, without even looking at Ricky, who would certainly disapprove (he could drink both glasses if necessary; he needs both glasses), but Ricky says no before he can say yes, and they have only plates of plentiful sweet bread. It tastes nothing like they think it should, but neither of them have Italian mothers, so they tentatively agree that they wouldn't know (wouldn't care).

It takes too long (they both agree, without remarking on the subejct) before they're politely (but ever-so firmly) told that the restaurant closed half an hour ago, and it takes too long before they can leisurely apologise for the inconvenience, tossing napkins on the table, emptying glasses, strolling upstairs in no particular hurry (finally equipped with their excuse to do so).

(iii)

"It won't always be like this," Andriy says, hoping that Ricky will know what he means, what he's trying to tell him (ineloquently, inexpertly), hoping that he'll at least know in the morning, or the morning after that, when he's not thinking so much about it.

Sitting next to each other on the bed, shoes kicked off, silently agreeing on what they're going to do, yet suddenly unsure how they're going to do it, how it was that they used to do it (but praying that their bodies will remember), each waiting for the courage to do something, to move closer, to be as close as they used to be. There's only so much, really, that he can ask of Ricky (and he's asking so much already), so Andriy kisses him first, like he did the first time, and he's almost surprised (elated and disappointed) that kissing Ricky feels no different from how it always felt, from how he always imagined it would feel.

(iv)

Ricky sleeps on his back, much more calmly than he should (he'll have to wake up and leave soon, it's getting too late, too early), mouth slightly open, and Andriy wishes he'd snore, a little bit, or move, betray some restlessness (betray the fact that he's still alive). Propped against the headboard, legs folded underneath him, too long in the same position but not caring much either way, not knowing what else he'd do with them, not sure he can even move them any more, Andriy looks down on Ricky's face, his hair that will need to be cut in a week or two, and toys for a second with the idea (horrifying and enticing) that he can't wake him up, that he will sit here in mourning and cradle this still-warm body until they drag them both away (until Ricky wakes up).

Looking at the clock, he decides to let him sleep for another five minutes (to let himself watch for another four), decides not to entertain such thoughts anymore, decides (almost decides, he knows you can't decide these things) that all appearances aside, this is not what it seems, and not how it feels, because that's not how these things go. Trying not to count the seconds, trying to make them pass as slowly as possible before bending to kiss Ricky awake (but not to kiss him goodbye), watching him dress, meticulously and neurotically, before letting Ricky tell him to go to sleep (he needs it), letting him turn off the lights and close the door behind him.

(He sleeps longer than he meant to, and better than he thought he would.)

(v)

On the flight back to London, Andriy sits in an aisle seat.

Dei Laghi.

Sun, 20 Jan 2008 17:30:52 GMT

Title: Dei Laghi
Pairing: Santiago Solari / Zlatan Ibrahimovic
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Not mine; all lies
Note: Originally written for the second issue of cornerflag - crossposted because I like to have everything in one place

i. The first time Santiago Solari gets into Zlatan Ibrahimovic's car, he hesitates, because he is still only Ibrahimovic, still only a name, a stranger about whom he has heard far too much. He hesitates, because he is still only Solari, and they've only known each other for a few weeks, but he has known of Ibrahimovic for far longer than that, and he doubts, very much, that Ibrahimovic has known of him. Still, it makes sense, this quick suggestion-statement, made with a shrug and half-smile, so in the end he does get into Zlatan Ibrahimovic's car, and lets him drive.

ii. At first, they take turns, picking up the other at not-quite-agreed-upon times every other morning, waiting with the engine still running for the other to emerge and strap himself in for the ride. If left unvaried, unchanged, and they leave it like that for weeks and months, it takes forty-five minutes through the quiet privilege of suburbs, and the busy rush-hour of traffic lights that never seem to change until one of them says something about it, and autostrade in the fast lane. Not that much later, Zlatan becomes simply Zlatan, and Santi notices that they're always in his car.

iii. Watching the landscape of his chosen home, this North Italian province, drift by, Santi wonders why it shouldn't be more familiar to him, why it is that Zlatan should know the road better than he, though Zlatan grins and says he is new, younger and less experienced, he has to practice more than him. Even if he agrees, and he does, Santi doesn't believe him, though he's learning to do so, but examines the territory all the same, so different from the Tuscan postcards he used to see. Still, he finds that he likes seeing it, the way they're taking.

iv. It takes a while for Santi to even notice, because he's not given to noticing these things, he could have sworn that he isn't, but he likes it when Zlatan drives, though he would never have expected that he would, or that Zlatan would drive the way he does. Correctly and meticulously, probably the way someone once taught him, far more calmly than anyone that Santi has ever known before, Zlatan drives exactly like you're supposed to drive. He asks about it, one morning, and Zlatan says that his teacher was Swedish, and Santi forgets to ask what that means.

v. A minor detour, Santi suggests one morning, might be nice, because they always take the same roads, the same traffic lights, and they see the same houses, the same trees; this is where they live, after all, and they should know more ways than one. Zlatan agrees that they should, admits that he is right, and Santi hasn't yet known Zlatan to being the sort who admits to very much, though he's very careful not to let Zlatan surprise him. For once, Zlatan hesitates slightly, and Santi takes his chance, tells him he might know of another way, another road.

vi. One road, it turns out, is much like any other; a little slower, perhaps, with a better view, but they find that neither of them really cares for the view, because at the end of the day that was never what they were looking for, and they never even have to agree on it. Even so, Santi finds a map and turns off the GPS; finds them a new road, not every day, not every other day, but from time to time, when they have all the time in the world. Neither of them would ever call it an adventure.

vii. They're late only once, and Zlatan admits it's his fault, even though they both know it isn't; not late in leaving, perhaps even a few minutes early, but late in arriving all the same. They don't mean to be late, and they don't know they will be, not to begin with; they hardly feel guilty when they realise, realise they should hurry, and don't hurry at all. Zlatan doesn't question him when Santi says there's nothing wrong with taking your time, if you don't make a habit of it, and Santi doesn't have to ask him to take the blame.

viii. The arrangement, such as it is, is nothing unusual; not a single one of its elements, the parts that make up the rules of their engagement, is anything out of the ordinary: the closing car doors of a fast German car, the space of time between one quarter of an hour and another on most mornings, the short-hand texts. It's established so easily, so naturally that everything that goes along with it never seems to be much of a point for conversation either, so they never do talk about it. There is no need, because nobody ever asks about it.

ix. Other parts of their arrangement come less easily, with much greater hesitation, and even fewer words; these are the parts that serve no fundamental purpose that they can name, even if they can dream up legions of words for it, though Santi suspects that the purpose is there nonetheless. Persisting in speaking of it like that, in thinking of it as an arrangement seems the best solution, and perhaps the easiest, and Santi would rather this didn't become difficult, so he never gives it any other name, not in front of Zlatan. There is no argument; there never really was.

x. Whispered conversations (because that's the only way they can talk about this: hushed tones, mouths pressed so close it almost tickles), once in a while, uncertainly searching for words in a language that belongs to neither of them (listening for the other's accent, missing it, but hearing traces of Spanish and Swedish and something else besides), Zlatan less secure than he usually is, Santi more so, because they know what to say (but only Santi is sure he doesn't have to say it, doesn't need to hear it), so he listens when it happens, sometimes, that Zlatan asks, "Drive me home."

Please note:
i. "Autostrada dei Laghi" is the nickname given to the motorway that you take in a north-western direction from Milan towards the lakes near the Swiss border. Normally, you would take this road to go to La Pinetina, Inter's training facility. It translates to "of the lakes".

ii. I came up with a number of rules for how I was going to write this, and I may as well admit what they were: there had to be ten parts; each of these ten parts had to have exactly one hundred words; these one hundred words had to be divided into three separate sentences; no direct speech; no parentheses; all of these rules, except for the first one, were to be broken in the final part.

iii. with much thanks to Conny and Nol for handholding, support and very good advice.

Translation.

Tue, 15 Jan 2008 23:14:40 GMT

Title: Translation
Pairing: Christian Vieri / Hidetoshi Nakata
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine; all lies
Note: It's past midnight where I am, and I'm not sure how much time I'll have in the morning: so happy birthday, bustedflush - may you have wonderful year with much Bobosquee and many Bobohugs (and other good things as well) ♥ - this fic is set after Italy and Japan went out of the 2002 World Cup (and I do realise I'm blithely ignoring a thing or two about the Italian team's actual location)

The hotel room is so Japanese that Christian is sure that it can't be, shouldn't be; nothing real was ever this right, (though he knows he's wrong, he knows it's every bit as Japanese as it claims to be). For a country so large, so peopled, everything feels strangely small here, and this hotel room (it's big, he knows, probably among the biggest and best and most expensive in the hotel) is no exception; though he knows that perhaps it's the other way around, perhaps he's the one who's too big, too clumsy, for things as beautiful, as delicate as these. The door to the bathroom is made with rice paper (thin and see-through, almost), and entering the room, he steers well clear of it, afraid he'll break it, by accident, by being him, if he comes too close. Nakata, he notices (he still can't wrap his mouth around his given name, around all those syllables), Nakata has no such nervousness, no such gracelessness; Nakata finds the fridge, hiding as it is behind more rice paper where you'd never expect to find it, and Christian isn't sure what he's saying when he asks what kind of beer they should go for (getting all the Italian consonants right), but he shrugs and asks, makes himself at home, even though it isn't, even though it isn't even his hotel room, "What do you mean?"

Nakata is already holding a can, weighing it, and looks away from the fridge, almost, but not exactly looking at Christian, "Oh, right – you wouldn't be familiar with these brands. I was asking what kind of beer you want? There's Sapporo and Kirin. It doesn't really make much of a difference, I suppose. They're pretty similar."

Sitting on the edge of the low-set bed now (low enough that he bends his knees past forty-five degrees, though he only almost has the presence of mind to be surprised that it isn't a futon, such a small concession), trying not to bounce just a little, just to check how soft, how hard the mattress is, having dismissed the cushions and low table on the other side of the room (it looks further away, bigger, now that he's picked this side), Christian feels slightly relieved at the simplicity of the question, "Whichever one you prefer would be fine – I've really no idea." He doesn't take notice of which beer Nakata hands him, though the fridge-cold can feels heavy in his hands and he's tempted to wipe off the moist on the bed sheets (he doesn't; wipes it on his jeans instead), but he does take notice of the dip in the bed when Nakata sits down on the other side of it, crossing his legs underneath him and opening his own can. Christian pushes off his shoes, taking a second to feel the roughness of the rice mats covering the floor, wondering why people would choose to walk on that material (why they'd choose this over stone, or grass), before swirling around, copying Nakata's movement and folding his own legs, resting his elbows on his knees, opening his own can.

"Well," Nakata begins, not hesitating, but a little uncertain (or so Christian thinks), "What shall we drink to?"

He'd thought he'd be less sure, less quick, but before he can think about it, Christian says, "Better days," and raises his can in near-mock salute (raises his eyebrow in mock salute). Nakata mirrors him, a little more precisely than he'd like, even copying his accent (though he knows that Nakata might not realise he's doing it), and they drink to better days.

"When are you going back to Italy?" Nakata asks, quietly, as if needing something, anything to ask about, to talk about, though they both know that they really have little to talk about, that there's very little to say (at least not if they talk about what they're expecting the other to want to talk about), "Tomorrow? Day after that?"

"Tomorrow," Christian isn't looking forward to it, but he knows that he doesn't have to say that, "What about you? Staying here until pre-season?"

"Yes," there's a sound like a chuckle, though Christian thinks he might have got it wrong, might have misunderstood something (and catches himself praying that Nakata finds it just as difficult to read him), "I'm home for the holidays now."

"So what do you plan on doing," Christian takes another swig (the beer is almost too cold for him to taste, the can feels much lighter already), "For the holidays, I mean?"

"Visit family, mostly," he shrugs, "I don't see that much of them normally. Obviously."

Nodding, almost laughing at himself (he'd never expected that he'd be surprised by someone saying something so obvious, so ordinary, but he doesn't know what to expect from Nakata), he merely echoes the sentiment, "Obviously," and takes another swig, and another.

"So what do you plan on doing?"

Christian looks at his beer (almost empty now, and something in his head feels lighter already, something in his stomach feels heavier), then looks back up at Nakata, half-way grinning, "What do I always do?"

It's definitely a smirk on Nakata's face, and Christian feels relieved that he's so sure of that (you have to have a few certainties, he thinks, a very few, once in a while), "Ah, yes. I think I know."

"Well, hey," Christian shakes the can, checks how much is left, drinks half of it, "life's not worth living unless you have some fun, is it?"

Nakata's eyes narrow a little bit, and there's even more of a smirk, and Christian is almost sure he knows what that means, though he's not quite sure what he'll say, "A bit clichéd, isn't it?"

"Oh, yes," the beer can is empty now (and he's not even embarrassed that it didn't take him longer), and he thinks that Nakata's is too, "But it's a cliché because it's true, so that's ok."

"I guess it is," Nakata reaches across the bed and takes the empty can from Christian's hands, placing both empty cans on the bedstand, "Another one?"

For a second, Christian feels unsure again, unsure whether he would like another one, unsure why he's drinking beer with Hidetoshi Nakata in a strange hotel room (in a strange land), but he's used to these minor uncertainties, and he takes a breath, unfolds his legs from underneath himself, looks sideways at Nakata who looks sideways back at him, "No, I don't think I need another one."

It takes a minute or two for either of them to move (for either of them to be the first to move), and when they do, they move clumsily, with far more hesitation than either of them is used to, before they agree silently to the whats and the hows, and in the end it takes much longer (the time passes much quicker) than Christian had thought it would. It's still dark when he leaves, but he thinks it must be closer to morning than night (he thinks he smells a hint of it); they don't bother with phone numbers, and Christian catches up on his sleep on the plane. The summer seems shorter than usual, but they don't really have much to say to each other (because they both know, more or less, what there is and isn't left to say) when they meet after the season's begun.

Thyme.

Fri, 11 Jan 2008 23:54:42 GMT

Title: Thyme
Pairing: Christian Vieri / Filippo Inzaghi
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine; all lies
Note: For rose_of_rouen and bustedflush - it's all their fault anyways - this is crack!AU, starring Bobo and Pippo as Italian exchange students

Christian isn't sure exactly what woke him up until he notices that someone is sticking an elbow into his side, a knee into his back, (and it takes far longer than it should for him to notice that); he turns slightly and begins, tries to find some familiar words, "Che caz ...?" He's cut off as another knee is added to the weight, and the first is removed, until the figure crashes to the floor, and Christian only has to turn his head slightly to see Filippo lying there, (or at least some arms and legs and hair that probably all go into making one Filippo), "What the fuck are you doing down there?"

Filippo doesn't reply, not for a couple of seconds, before the assorted legs and arms straighten themselves out a little bit, and he scrambles to his feet (to his knees, at least), "Gotta go to the bathroom." And he disappears, moving much faster than before, and Christian tries very hard not to listen to the noises (much louder than noises normally are) he makes out there, while he begins noticing that he should also be trying not to feel his own body at all. Sleep would be better now (he knows this instinctively), but Filippo returns just as he drifts off and startles him awake again by toppling back into bed, not even attempting to avoid hitting Christian.

"Would you watch out, for fuck's sake?" Filippo doesn't reply to this either, but shuffles off him and into his own corner of the bed, trying to take the covers with him. Christian pulls the covers back (they're his, or he thinks they're his, because this looks more like his dorm room than Filippo's), and Filippo lets go, a little too easily.

"Do you remember very much of last night?" And Christian finds himself wishing that he remembered less.

-

"Why is there only beer left?"

They are sitting on the kitchen floor, blissfully ignoring how it hasn't been cleaned for more than a month (pointedly not seeing the bits and pieces of food, not feeling the way it sticks to their jeans and the soles of their shoes), listening absent-mindedly to the music which the neighbours (the people downstairs who have an exam tomorrow morning) will be complaining about any minute now, sharing a luke-warm beer, the last of their stash. Christian looks up at Filippo who is staring sullenly, dejectedly at their lonely bottle, "I have cigarettes!"

Filippo doesn't bother looking up, just purses his lips a bit more, "Where did you get cigarettes? I thought you'd smoked your pack? And 7-Eleven is too far away."

"Some girl gave them to me," Christian knows that it's past four, and maybe he should go to bed instead, (but he's not very attached to that idea, now that he thinks about it), "She was pretty hot."

He tries not to grimace, but Filippo notices (damn him), "Did she go home? Without taking you with her?" And Christian considers asking him about his luck tonight, but doesn't (because he'd seen the spectacularly unchatty blonde that Filippo had been trying to talk to, and he only has to smile to remind Filippo of that), and shrugs instead.

"Right, then," he begins, "Let's finish this pack as well."

"What's fun about regular cigarettes?" Demonstrably, Filippo finishes the beer and begins to stand up, somewhat precariously, "We haven't got anything to put in them."

"Sure we do –" Christian is already doubting the wisdom of his words, "– we're in a kitchen."

And Filippo promptly takes him up on it, pulls out a drawer, begins reading aloud, "Oregano, basil, rosemary, ginger, thyme ..."

"Let's try thyme."

Thyme, it turns out, isn't easy to put in a cigarette, but eventually they succeed, and light it. Others pass by, ask what they're doing, and leave, shaking their heads and muttering things in their strange language that Christian is certain have something to do with the madness of the entire Italian people, (he's not surprised). Neither of them can actually taste it, but neither of them is about to admit that, and they're both sure that it must be having some effect (some effect that isn't the lateness of the hour, or the alcohol drunk hours ago, or they way they're sitting awfully close to each other).

When Christian finishes their cigarette and moves to put it out in the bottle, he leans across Filippo to reach it, a little closer than he meant to, and touches his hair, his face, and before realising what he's doing, says, "You smell like thyme now."

-

Christian's bed (he's almost sure it's his) is terribly small this morning; narrow, only one pillow, only one cover, and both of them are eager to let the other have it; none of them knows exactly what to say, what to do next.

"We could watch The Big Lebowski," at first, Christian is surprised, before realising that he shouldn't be (before remembering that they both like that film), so he puts it on, and they lie next to each other while watching it.

Æbleskud.

Thu, 03 Jan 2008 23:20:56 GMT

Title: Æbleskud
Pairing: Christian Vieri / Filippo Inzaghi
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Not mine; all lies
Note: extremely late birthday fic for the wondrous levels - happy belated birthday, my dear ♥ - 'æbleskud' is the Danish word for the act of stealing apples from someone's garden or orchard (but not from a shop)

It takes him by surprise every year, how the soft warmth of May and June gets heavier through July and feels like it might weigh you down (like it might fucking kill you) by the time you reach August. Pippo loves the summer, he'll say, and he does, loves everything that's associated with it, all the things that he was brought up to love and appreciate, but there comes a time each and every summer when he feels like he can't quite catch his breath anymore (when he begins to wonder what it was about summer that he liked in the first place).

Thinking these last few days before one year ends and another begins should be relished, enjoyed, he tries his best, working on a tan that needs no improvement; he waits, most days, for the evening, for the darkness to fall and the day to cool down enough that he can wear jeans and tshirts and sit down for hour-long meals at back alley osterie (he never was very good at finding them, but he knows that Bobo is).

Far later than it should be, far later than they'd planned, and not in a taxi like they were supposed to be (taxis, they should know from experience, become scarce at certain times on Saturday nights, scarce enough that even very famous footballers have trouble finding one), taking turns in almost stumbling a little bit, taking turns to catch each other, never quite letting go of each other; none of them exactly sure where they are. Bobo claims to have some idea of which direction they came from, which direction they should be going, and Pippo doubts that he's telling the truth (but he also doubts that he knows he's lying), but comes along all the same, because he isn't sober enough to think of this as anything but a very nice walk (because it's Bobo leading the way).

The streetlights seem to be further and further apart, not that either of them is counting, the gardens bigger and slightly less well-kept, and Pippo is almost sure that they'll run into no taxis in this part of town (though he only knows the other part of the town, the part closer to the beach), and he's close to suggesting that they turn around, close to suggesting that Bobo might not be as right as he wants him to be. Then, he stops, and Bobo stops with him; Bobo looks at him, and he looks at something else before glancing at Bobo, "Do you think those apples might be ripe?"

About to say something, Bobo turns to look at the tree, well inside a garden that looks like someone might be minding it (whenever there's time), safe behind a fence that could be scaled without too much effort; he almost laughs as he looks back at Pippo, "It's August, Pippo, of course they're not going to be ripe yet."

"They look big, though," and Bobo almost says that Pippo looks hopeful (but remembers that he likes it when Pippo looks that way), "They could be ripe, I think, the weather's been nice lately."

There's a tug at Bobo's arm as Pippo starts towards the fence, towards the tree, attempting vainly to drag Bobo along with him, before giving up and letting go, but still making his way to the obstacle in his way, stopping to consider the height (at least seven feet, more like eight), consider his chances of scaling it without Bobo's help, he turns back towards Bobo, "You know I'm not exactly sober, don't you? I could fall and hurt myself."

He wants to cross his arms, he wants to lean back against something and look like he's just waiting for whichever inevitability comes next, and he almost does, grunting, "Yeah, and you're also too drunk to work those tricks properly, Pippo." Bobo knows that Pippo isn't fooled, (Pippo never is), so when he starts climbing, Bobo lends him a hand, two hands even, and Pippo lends him two hands, and they fall gracelessly into the enclosed orchard.

Getting up first, Pippo doesn't help Bobo before making his way to the tree (it looks bigger up close), not even pausing before beginning his ascent, disappearing between branches and leaves and darkness, leaving Bobo on the ground, wondering where he got to be so good at that (before remembering about the trees in his parents' garden, so much like this one), worrying that the tree might not carry his weight, that he might fall. It takes less time than he thinks it will, then – "They're not ripe!" – and an apple, half-bitten into, falls to the dry earth, landing heavily on dying grass; Bobo looks up.

"Are you coming down, then?"

"Aren't you coming up?"

Not quite knowing which denial to choose (it's ridiculous, he can't climb trees, hasn't tried in at least twenty years), he remembers the most obvious one (this is private property, this is someone else's apple tree; they'll get caught) and takes hold of the highest branch he can reach, places his foot on the lowest, and hauls himself upwards. He slips and slides, but doesn't lose his grip, though it takes him much longer than it took Pippo; this time, Pippo does extend a hand, and helps him sit, not quite as high up as Pippo, and unwilling to let go of his arm (convincing himself that he'll fall if he does), "I thought there'd be a view."

The way Pippo looks at him (an unsteady, heady sort of gaze) makes him worry that he might not be the one to fall down, "Hey, there is now," and he's not quite sure what to say to that (not right now, not like this, not when they might fall). Instead of waiting for him to say anything at all, Pippo dislodges himself, descends one, then two brances, poising himself for the jump.

When he lands, he stumbles a bit, but stays on his feet (he knew he would), then calls as quietly as he can, "Come on, it's ok." Bobo lands on his feet as well, but falls, and Pippo tries not to laugh as he helps him up, as they help each other cross the fence, walking back the way they came (Pippo is fairly sure that they were going the wrong way all along).

"What time is it?"

Bobo examines his watch under a lamp post, "It's past two – why?"

"Oh, you know," they keep walking and take a right turn, "It'll be my birthday tomorrow," Pippo's arm goes around his, "We should have something with apples in it."