Camomile
by rose_of_rouen
God knows what I think about you.
Sometimes I wish you would just retire and get out of my way, and sometimes, when we sit together at dinner, watching you push the food around your plate until the dessert comes and you eat mine as well I wonder how on earth I would manage without you.
You madden me on the pitch, you don’t seem to know anyone else is there, you hold your hand up in apology and I just want to kill you. “It’s what they pay him for,” says Paolo “I don’t think he can play any other way.”
We have terrible arguments, once on the training ground you tried to punch me, and after I didn’t pass you the ball during a match you gave me such a lecture when we were on the bench that even Sheva, the sweetest tempered man in the world, told you to shut up. But when I score, I run over to the sideline and hug you, and when we are on the pitch together you are the person I turn to first.
And underneath all this is something else, like the time we are sitting together, one night in Rome against Lazio. Your brother is on the other bench and you are leaning back with your arms crossed, talking as you almost invariably are during a match, saying that he is taking you out afterwards and what you are going to have to eat and how you love Rome and how his house is furnished, and that you don’t like the colour of the wallpaper and how you hope that we win so you can tease him. Suddenly your talking and your closeness overwhelms me and it crosses my mind, absolutely out of nowhere, that I should kiss you.
I told you once, how much I care about you. We were sharing a room as usual and you were making us that awful camomile tea they make us drink, but I made such a mess of it you thought I was asking your advice about someone else. “It’s a crush Alberto,” you said “Everyone has them, we are all together, all of the time, it’s natural. When I was first at Juve I used to mope around after Conte, he was very kind and eventually I grew out of it.”
Then you came and sat on the bed next to me, and put your arm around me and start telling me stories about how unpopular you were at Juventus. How del Piero chased you through the dressing room and Zidane threatened to wring your neck. “It wasn’t funny at the time,” you said, but you were laughing so hard that the bed shook and that made me laugh as well. So the moment passed, and I thought that you still didn’t know.
I wonder how long things will be like this, how long I will have you to love and to resent and to be with every day. Players come and go at clubs like this, and even if I don’t get sold, you won’t play forever. You don’t say anything but I see how much your body aches some mornings, and how tired you are after a game. I would get more of a chance to play if you were no longer here, but without you shouting at me from the sidelines it wouldn’t feel the same.
I thought you might go to America, you talked about it and my heart dropped. But you said “You could come out to visit me there, it’s not a long flight.” And I was happy because it meant we weren’t just teammates, but friends.
And then one night, before a really big match I hear you moving around in the room, you never can sleep but you don’t usually keep me awake. After a while you say “Alberto, can I come into bed with you?” I don’t know what to say, I don’t know what I will do with you lying next to me. “Please,” you say and that decides me. “Of course,” I say, and you slip in beside me. You smell of cinnamon, and I put my arms around you, but not too tight because all we are is friends.
You put your head on my shoulder and I find it hard to breathe. I try to stay awake because I know that I will never get the chance to hold you like this again, but you are so warm and the sound of you sleeping makes me drowsy. We stay like that for hours, and I barely move. After a while I hear the birds start to sing, and a murky grey light comes through the blinds. I feel you wake up and you stretch, breaking away from my arms. Then you turn and smile, and, wonderfully, unbelievably, you lean down towards me, hold my face in your hands, and kiss me on the mouth.
God knows what I think about you.
Sometimes I wish you would just retire and get out of my way, and sometimes, when we sit together at dinner, watching you push the food around your plate until the dessert comes and you eat mine as well I wonder how on earth I would manage without you.
You madden me on the pitch, you don’t seem to know anyone else is there, you hold your hand up in apology and I just want to kill you. “It’s what they pay him for,” says Paolo “I don’t think he can play any other way.”
We have terrible arguments, once on the training ground you tried to punch me, and after I didn’t pass you the ball during a match you gave me such a lecture when we were on the bench that even Sheva, the sweetest tempered man in the world, told you to shut up. But when I score, I run over to the sideline and hug you, and when we are on the pitch together you are the person I turn to first.
And underneath all this is something else, like the time we are sitting together, one night in Rome against Lazio. Your brother is on the other bench and you are leaning back with your arms crossed, talking as you almost invariably are during a match, saying that he is taking you out afterwards and what you are going to have to eat and how you love Rome and how his house is furnished, and that you don’t like the colour of the wallpaper and how you hope that we win so you can tease him. Suddenly your talking and your closeness overwhelms me and it crosses my mind, absolutely out of nowhere, that I should kiss you.
I told you once, how much I care about you. We were sharing a room as usual and you were making us that awful camomile tea they make us drink, but I made such a mess of it you thought I was asking your advice about someone else. “It’s a crush Alberto,” you said “Everyone has them, we are all together, all of the time, it’s natural. When I was first at Juve I used to mope around after Conte, he was very kind and eventually I grew out of it.”
Then you came and sat on the bed next to me, and put your arm around me and start telling me stories about how unpopular you were at Juventus. How del Piero chased you through the dressing room and Zidane threatened to wring your neck. “It wasn’t funny at the time,” you said, but you were laughing so hard that the bed shook and that made me laugh as well. So the moment passed, and I thought that you still didn’t know.
I wonder how long things will be like this, how long I will have you to love and to resent and to be with every day. Players come and go at clubs like this, and even if I don’t get sold, you won’t play forever. You don’t say anything but I see how much your body aches some mornings, and how tired you are after a game. I would get more of a chance to play if you were no longer here, but without you shouting at me from the sidelines it wouldn’t feel the same.
I thought you might go to America, you talked about it and my heart dropped. But you said “You could come out to visit me there, it’s not a long flight.” And I was happy because it meant we weren’t just teammates, but friends.
And then one night, before a really big match I hear you moving around in the room, you never can sleep but you don’t usually keep me awake. After a while you say “Alberto, can I come into bed with you?” I don’t know what to say, I don’t know what I will do with you lying next to me. “Please,” you say and that decides me. “Of course,” I say, and you slip in beside me. You smell of cinnamon, and I put my arms around you, but not too tight because all we are is friends.
You put your head on my shoulder and I find it hard to breathe. I try to stay awake because I know that I will never get the chance to hold you like this again, but you are so warm and the sound of you sleeping makes me drowsy. We stay like that for hours, and I barely move. After a while I hear the birds start to sing, and a murky grey light comes through the blinds. I feel you wake up and you stretch, breaking away from my arms. Then you turn and smile, and, wonderfully, unbelievably, you lean down towards me, hold my face in your hands, and kiss me on the mouth.