Dream Pair
Title: Dream Pair
Rating: R - for language I guess. Not much else really happens here :D
Pairing: Steven Gerrard/Frank Lampard, Steven Gerrard/Xabi Alonso (implied), Frank Lampard/John Terry (if you squint really really hard XP)
Warning: Well 'tis RPS naturally, squicks you? Don't read please.
Disclaimer: This story is complete fiction, don't know the boys, never will... I wish
Summary: Defeat is never easy to bear alone.
He thinks that if anyone could see him now, he’d be the very picture of defeat. Sitting alone in the dark damp of the changing room, with his head bowed, shoulders slumped.
And he is. He feels it in him, in his bones, his soul. And all around him, in the dripdrip dripping echoing around the empty room, in the darkness that just threatens to overwhelm. Defeat.
He thinks he won’t ever forget what this feels like, and he never wants to feel it again.
Sure he got up just like everyone else, off the pitch, and back to the hotel. Did what was expected of him, made his rounds hugging and comforting, and patting Wayne with the obligatory “Take it easy mate.” But after the last of his teammates had switched off the lights, figuring that there wasn’t anybody else still in there, he stayed silent in his cubicle. Still frantically scrubbing at his skin, like he could just wash off the loss, like he could just erase the deafening roar of the crowd as Ronaldo sunk in the penalty. Like their defeat wouldn’t be haunting his dreams later that night. No, his defeat. His missed penalty.
He sank onto the bench, barely able to just wrap a towel around himself, and finally collapsed under the relatively safe cover of solitude. He thinks, self-deprecatingly that all he lacked now was some alcohol and some tears, buckets yes fucking streams in fact, and the picture’d be complete. But no, there weren’t tears then while he listened to John sob his heart out on the field, and there wouldn’t be any now either. He is just so tired, so so tired. He feels the ache of a weariness so deep down, right into his very core. But more so he feels the burden of yet another spurned opportunity. Best team yet, they’d called us. Best team. His inner voice unrelenting, still punishing, even when he couldn't remember most of what just happened. But this video would be one he wouldn’t be asking to watch anytime soon, and if he had his way this would be one game he would never have to relive again in his life.
“’s a good thing you didn’t come down to Stamford Bridge then huh?”
He started at the sudden voice, his head shot up only to find Lampard sitting next to him. Dimly, it registered in his head that he must have came in at some point, probably forgotten some of his belongings. He wondered idly in some distant part of his mind how long he had been sitting there with him in the dark. He blinked slowly, focussing on Lampard- No, Frank. Frank. Steve, he’s your teammate.
But you don’t just erase ten months’ worth of rivalry just like that.
Frank was still staring at him, with a faint frown on his face, like he’s seeing something in Steve that he can’t understand, or that he’s finally just figuring it out. But all Steve could think of, while looking at him, was failure, their failure. Tasted it in the back of his mouth like the bitter aftertaste of something dear lost.
“Fucking dream pair.”
And that was that. Because he couldn’t come up with anything else to reply with. And because that was them. Or what they should have been. Frank snorts derisively and all of a sudden they’re sliding onto the wet floor, clutching their stomachs as they fold in on themselves in laughter.
It goes on for a full minute, or hour, fuck if he knows. They’re in hysterics he knows, but he can still hear Frank wheezing with laughter and he’s just banged his head on the underside of the bench and he just can’t stop laughing.
Eventually they subside, exploding laughter giving way to silence, fading and all that’s left is the ghost of what could have been and questions. Questions of where did it all go wrong? Because it had worked before. They had worked well before, and maybe it wasn’t quite the same this time around, but it didn’t matter. The ending was still the same. The same sides, the same penalties, the same misses. Nothing had changed in two years, and he’d discovered that defeat was still as difficult to swallow. But perhaps this time it was harder, best England team in years. Why? Why? Why? And in the end, all they had were questions that none of them had answers to. Except maybe they did, but Steve doesn’t want to think about that now.
Not when Frank’s lying on the ground next to him, warm body flushed against his side, and looking at him. Looking at him like, yes, like he sees something in Steve and he’s finally finally figuring it out. There are no questions, only realisation, and acceptance and understanding, as he leaned forward and pressed his lips firmly on Steve’s.
He shut his eyes, and tried to think of Alex, of Lexie, of fucking Xabi, but all he could feel was the smooth warmth of Frank’s mouth against his as he parted his lips. He wants this, he realized as he pulled Frank closer towards him, deepening the kiss. Because this is them, it’s them and the world, as it always has been, or so it had felt like this whole month. And this was what he needed all throughout the tournament but he just didn’t know it. Until now, because how the hell do you miss something when it was never even there before?
“Frank, you alright in there mate? Got your stuff?”
They broke apart hastily, averting their eyes as they separated. Steve blinked rapidly at the ground as the knowledge of what they had just done crashed down upon him. He turned to face Frank, but Frank had already gotten up and was standing by the door.
“Yeah, got it. Just gimme a minute.”
“A’right. Meet you back by the car.”
Frank turned back to him, and they looked at each other in silence, the sounds of footsteps and swinging keys fading into the distance.
“That was John,” Frank licked his lips nervously and Steve wondered if he could taste him on them like Steve still could on his own. If he was regretting what they just did, or if he was already thinking of Terry and just getting the hell out of there. “Me and the lads, we’re goin’ out for a bit of a drink. John said it might be good, loosen ‘em up a bit. It’s just fuckin’ ‘ell tense in there. Besides, it’s our last night in Germany, might as well enjoy a bit.”
Steve nodded wordlessly, and looked away, because what else was he supposed to say to that? It made sense-
“Do you-” He broke off, shifted his weight around a bit, and tried again. “You know. Wanna come?”
Steve looked back up at him. He was hesitant, but there was no doubt in his eyes that held promises of- something. And Steve couldn’t help but think that it was all too late, and where was all this before it all ended? Because this was only their first World Cup, but already he would be 30 in four years, and Frank 32. And if they couldn’t even do it this time, how could it possibly work then?
Too late, late, late..
He opened his mouth to- say something, anything, to say “No, thank you, you boys have fun” perhaps. But just then Frank shifted slightly, as though making a move forward towards Steve, but then had thought better of it. It struck him then that Frank really wanted it. Really wanted to make this work. Whatever this was. And he remembered all of a sudden how strongly he had wanted this a moment ago, still wants this.
Maybe...
“I’ll catch up with you boys later, text me the address when you get there.”
And when Frank looked like he was about to argue, “Still gotta change mate.” He gestured at the white towel wrapped around his waist. He watched as Frank’s eyes traced his hands’ movement down to the towel and back up his torso again, and was that a flush he was seeing? Steve cleared his throat quietly and Frank looked away hastily.
“Yeah. I’ll- er text you the add. Later.”
Steve stood there for a second more, as he watched Frank leave the room abruptly. He smiled, just a small one, and licked his lips, chasing this lingering aftertaste with his tongue.
Maybe, just maybe.
Fin.
Rating: R - for language I guess. Not much else really happens here :D
Pairing: Steven Gerrard/Frank Lampard, Steven Gerrard/Xabi Alonso (implied), Frank Lampard/John Terry (if you squint really really hard XP)
Warning: Well 'tis RPS naturally, squicks you? Don't read please.
Disclaimer: This story is complete fiction, don't know the boys, never will... I wish
Summary: Defeat is never easy to bear alone.
He thinks that if anyone could see him now, he’d be the very picture of defeat. Sitting alone in the dark damp of the changing room, with his head bowed, shoulders slumped.
And he is. He feels it in him, in his bones, his soul. And all around him, in the dripdrip dripping echoing around the empty room, in the darkness that just threatens to overwhelm. Defeat.
He thinks he won’t ever forget what this feels like, and he never wants to feel it again.
Sure he got up just like everyone else, off the pitch, and back to the hotel. Did what was expected of him, made his rounds hugging and comforting, and patting Wayne with the obligatory “Take it easy mate.” But after the last of his teammates had switched off the lights, figuring that there wasn’t anybody else still in there, he stayed silent in his cubicle. Still frantically scrubbing at his skin, like he could just wash off the loss, like he could just erase the deafening roar of the crowd as Ronaldo sunk in the penalty. Like their defeat wouldn’t be haunting his dreams later that night. No, his defeat. His missed penalty.
He sank onto the bench, barely able to just wrap a towel around himself, and finally collapsed under the relatively safe cover of solitude. He thinks, self-deprecatingly that all he lacked now was some alcohol and some tears, buckets yes fucking streams in fact, and the picture’d be complete. But no, there weren’t tears then while he listened to John sob his heart out on the field, and there wouldn’t be any now either. He is just so tired, so so tired. He feels the ache of a weariness so deep down, right into his very core. But more so he feels the burden of yet another spurned opportunity. Best team yet, they’d called us. Best team. His inner voice unrelenting, still punishing, even when he couldn't remember most of what just happened. But this video would be one he wouldn’t be asking to watch anytime soon, and if he had his way this would be one game he would never have to relive again in his life.
“’s a good thing you didn’t come down to Stamford Bridge then huh?”
He started at the sudden voice, his head shot up only to find Lampard sitting next to him. Dimly, it registered in his head that he must have came in at some point, probably forgotten some of his belongings. He wondered idly in some distant part of his mind how long he had been sitting there with him in the dark. He blinked slowly, focussing on Lampard- No, Frank. Frank. Steve, he’s your teammate.
But you don’t just erase ten months’ worth of rivalry just like that.
Frank was still staring at him, with a faint frown on his face, like he’s seeing something in Steve that he can’t understand, or that he’s finally just figuring it out. But all Steve could think of, while looking at him, was failure, their failure. Tasted it in the back of his mouth like the bitter aftertaste of something dear lost.
“Fucking dream pair.”
And that was that. Because he couldn’t come up with anything else to reply with. And because that was them. Or what they should have been. Frank snorts derisively and all of a sudden they’re sliding onto the wet floor, clutching their stomachs as they fold in on themselves in laughter.
It goes on for a full minute, or hour, fuck if he knows. They’re in hysterics he knows, but he can still hear Frank wheezing with laughter and he’s just banged his head on the underside of the bench and he just can’t stop laughing.
Eventually they subside, exploding laughter giving way to silence, fading and all that’s left is the ghost of what could have been and questions. Questions of where did it all go wrong? Because it had worked before. They had worked well before, and maybe it wasn’t quite the same this time around, but it didn’t matter. The ending was still the same. The same sides, the same penalties, the same misses. Nothing had changed in two years, and he’d discovered that defeat was still as difficult to swallow. But perhaps this time it was harder, best England team in years. Why? Why? Why? And in the end, all they had were questions that none of them had answers to. Except maybe they did, but Steve doesn’t want to think about that now.
Not when Frank’s lying on the ground next to him, warm body flushed against his side, and looking at him. Looking at him like, yes, like he sees something in Steve and he’s finally finally figuring it out. There are no questions, only realisation, and acceptance and understanding, as he leaned forward and pressed his lips firmly on Steve’s.
He shut his eyes, and tried to think of Alex, of Lexie, of fucking Xabi, but all he could feel was the smooth warmth of Frank’s mouth against his as he parted his lips. He wants this, he realized as he pulled Frank closer towards him, deepening the kiss. Because this is them, it’s them and the world, as it always has been, or so it had felt like this whole month. And this was what he needed all throughout the tournament but he just didn’t know it. Until now, because how the hell do you miss something when it was never even there before?
“Frank, you alright in there mate? Got your stuff?”
They broke apart hastily, averting their eyes as they separated. Steve blinked rapidly at the ground as the knowledge of what they had just done crashed down upon him. He turned to face Frank, but Frank had already gotten up and was standing by the door.
“Yeah, got it. Just gimme a minute.”
“A’right. Meet you back by the car.”
Frank turned back to him, and they looked at each other in silence, the sounds of footsteps and swinging keys fading into the distance.
“That was John,” Frank licked his lips nervously and Steve wondered if he could taste him on them like Steve still could on his own. If he was regretting what they just did, or if he was already thinking of Terry and just getting the hell out of there. “Me and the lads, we’re goin’ out for a bit of a drink. John said it might be good, loosen ‘em up a bit. It’s just fuckin’ ‘ell tense in there. Besides, it’s our last night in Germany, might as well enjoy a bit.”
Steve nodded wordlessly, and looked away, because what else was he supposed to say to that? It made sense-
“Do you-” He broke off, shifted his weight around a bit, and tried again. “You know. Wanna come?”
Steve looked back up at him. He was hesitant, but there was no doubt in his eyes that held promises of- something. And Steve couldn’t help but think that it was all too late, and where was all this before it all ended? Because this was only their first World Cup, but already he would be 30 in four years, and Frank 32. And if they couldn’t even do it this time, how could it possibly work then?
Too late, late, late..
He opened his mouth to- say something, anything, to say “No, thank you, you boys have fun” perhaps. But just then Frank shifted slightly, as though making a move forward towards Steve, but then had thought better of it. It struck him then that Frank really wanted it. Really wanted to make this work. Whatever this was. And he remembered all of a sudden how strongly he had wanted this a moment ago, still wants this.
Maybe...
“I’ll catch up with you boys later, text me the address when you get there.”
And when Frank looked like he was about to argue, “Still gotta change mate.” He gestured at the white towel wrapped around his waist. He watched as Frank’s eyes traced his hands’ movement down to the towel and back up his torso again, and was that a flush he was seeing? Steve cleared his throat quietly and Frank looked away hastily.
“Yeah. I’ll- er text you the add. Later.”
Steve stood there for a second more, as he watched Frank leave the room abruptly. He smiled, just a small one, and licked his lips, chasing this lingering aftertaste with his tongue.
Maybe, just maybe.
Fin.