quiet things
Title: Quiet Things
Rating: R
Pairing: Ricardo Kakà/Andriy Shevchenko
Disclaimer: Lies.
Summary: What matters.
The San Siro is quiet, so quiet that he hears his own soft panting as he exits through the tunnel, which is twice as long as usually; so quiet that he hears the sweat rivulets rolling off his smooth back, which is twice as loud as usually; so so quiet that he hears his heart beating in his head, which is twice as haunting as usually.
Of course the locker room is quiet; the boys are quiet as they undress and shower and leave one by one, quietly, and there is no team talk today because they are not a team today and they know it and they keep quiet because there is nothing to say.
And it stays that way, it stays quiet until he is the only one left, in a seat that is not his because he is staring at his and the screen above it. Shevchenko 7. Shevchenko 7. Shevchenko 7. Like on the back of his shirt, which he is still wearing and it is sticky and sweat-drenched, but he wears it because it is his, like responsibility, and he doesn’t think that he can take it off anyway.
A whisper, breaking the quiet, “Andriy?”
He looks up and there’s soft-spoken Ricky, and he sighs, beckoning the younger man over. Ricky sits beside him, in a seat that is also not his, and leans into him, in a way that only he can, and whispers against his neck, “Everything will be okay.” They kiss and Andriy whispers back against his mouth, “It wasn’t my night.”
Ricky’s heart breaks a little, but he’s wearing his shirt too, but clean, like naïveté, so he presses their heads together, a gentle hand grazing his lover’s cheek and says, “It can be our night.” The sincerity in his eyes burns into Andriy, who looks away, looks away then and says, “Don’t touch me, I’m dirty.”
“I don’t care.”
Then hands are all over each other and there are hips-straddling and hair-grasping and the sweat on Andriy’s back is suddenly cool against his hot skin. Ricky tugs at his shirt and Andriy’s finding it harder and harder to breathe, so he shifts to remove the black band around his arm when he abruptly stops and Ricky nearly falls over, but he steadies himself against Andriy swiftly enough, gripping his shoulders as if for dear life and they both know that there will be bruises in the morning but they don’t care.
“We were supposed to honor him,” Andriy says softly, his fingers dancing around the black strip. “We honored no one tonight.”
Ricky frowns and perhaps for once, he is unsure of what to say, how to console, so he simply holds his lover close and touches their lips together, and when Andriy moves his hand away to press against Ricky’s lower back, he loosens the arm band and lets it fall around Andriy’s wrist, which he grips and pins above their heads. They’re kissing harder now, with more passion now, and the quiet in the room is not so quiet now, when Ricky moans in Andriy’s mouth as their hips become intimate, like they are intimate, and intimacy is both a privilege and their right and no one can take that away from them.
“No one,” Ricky echoes.
Shirts are tossed aside, dirty shirt, clean shirt, and it doesn’t matter which is whose as Ricky pushes a hand into Andriy’s pants and touches him, and they can both hear soft panting now. Shorts are tossed aside, number seven, number twenty-two, and it doesn’t matter which is whose as Andriy bites Ricky’s lip and strokes his back, and they can both hear sweat rolling now. Everything is tossed aside, responsibility, naïveté, and it doesn’t matter which is whose as they become one, and they can both hear hearts beating now, and the black band weaves around their fingers, still held up because they hold each other up and that’s what they care about.
And that’s what matters now.
Rating: R
Pairing: Ricardo Kakà/Andriy Shevchenko
Disclaimer: Lies.
Summary: What matters.
The San Siro is quiet, so quiet that he hears his own soft panting as he exits through the tunnel, which is twice as long as usually; so quiet that he hears the sweat rivulets rolling off his smooth back, which is twice as loud as usually; so so quiet that he hears his heart beating in his head, which is twice as haunting as usually.
Of course the locker room is quiet; the boys are quiet as they undress and shower and leave one by one, quietly, and there is no team talk today because they are not a team today and they know it and they keep quiet because there is nothing to say.
And it stays that way, it stays quiet until he is the only one left, in a seat that is not his because he is staring at his and the screen above it. Shevchenko 7. Shevchenko 7. Shevchenko 7. Like on the back of his shirt, which he is still wearing and it is sticky and sweat-drenched, but he wears it because it is his, like responsibility, and he doesn’t think that he can take it off anyway.
A whisper, breaking the quiet, “Andriy?”
He looks up and there’s soft-spoken Ricky, and he sighs, beckoning the younger man over. Ricky sits beside him, in a seat that is also not his, and leans into him, in a way that only he can, and whispers against his neck, “Everything will be okay.” They kiss and Andriy whispers back against his mouth, “It wasn’t my night.”
Ricky’s heart breaks a little, but he’s wearing his shirt too, but clean, like naïveté, so he presses their heads together, a gentle hand grazing his lover’s cheek and says, “It can be our night.” The sincerity in his eyes burns into Andriy, who looks away, looks away then and says, “Don’t touch me, I’m dirty.”
“I don’t care.”
Then hands are all over each other and there are hips-straddling and hair-grasping and the sweat on Andriy’s back is suddenly cool against his hot skin. Ricky tugs at his shirt and Andriy’s finding it harder and harder to breathe, so he shifts to remove the black band around his arm when he abruptly stops and Ricky nearly falls over, but he steadies himself against Andriy swiftly enough, gripping his shoulders as if for dear life and they both know that there will be bruises in the morning but they don’t care.
“We were supposed to honor him,” Andriy says softly, his fingers dancing around the black strip. “We honored no one tonight.”
Ricky frowns and perhaps for once, he is unsure of what to say, how to console, so he simply holds his lover close and touches their lips together, and when Andriy moves his hand away to press against Ricky’s lower back, he loosens the arm band and lets it fall around Andriy’s wrist, which he grips and pins above their heads. They’re kissing harder now, with more passion now, and the quiet in the room is not so quiet now, when Ricky moans in Andriy’s mouth as their hips become intimate, like they are intimate, and intimacy is both a privilege and their right and no one can take that away from them.
“No one,” Ricky echoes.
Shirts are tossed aside, dirty shirt, clean shirt, and it doesn’t matter which is whose as Ricky pushes a hand into Andriy’s pants and touches him, and they can both hear soft panting now. Shorts are tossed aside, number seven, number twenty-two, and it doesn’t matter which is whose as Andriy bites Ricky’s lip and strokes his back, and they can both hear sweat rolling now. Everything is tossed aside, responsibility, naïveté, and it doesn’t matter which is whose as they become one, and they can both hear hearts beating now, and the black band weaves around their fingers, still held up because they hold each other up and that’s what they care about.
And that’s what matters now.