Fic: An Element Of, Gio/Mark
Title: An Element Of
Rating: R for language
Wordcount: 584
Pairing: Mark van Bommel/Giovanni van Bronckhorst
Disclaimer: Not mine, not true. Woe.
Summary: A short slice-of-life bit of fluff between two captains at the 2010 World Cup. Requested by autumnsparkle a long time ago; I’m so sorry it took until now!
Gio’s got his tracksuit jacket done up to the very top, his chin and mouth buried behind the collar as he sits on the bench, shivering. Mark thinks he’s a wimp, since even the cool of the South African ‘winter’ morning isn’t that bad, and he says as much - volubly - when he jogs past.
On his second lap Gio is apparently asleep, his head drifting towards his chest and his twitching knee just jerking every once in a while. Mark runs closer to the bench, swipes his feet out from under him, laughs at the disgruntled yelp he elicits, and jogs on.
As he completes his third lap, Gio has one leg crossed over the other and a pout is just emerging over his collar. The fidgeting is back in earnest. Mark grins and dashes sweat out of his eyes. “Old man,” he chirps as he goes past. Gio says nothing.
Fourth lap. “How’s your arthritis?”
Fifth lap. “One more tackle and you’ll need a walker.” Still nothing.
Sixth lap. “Can you remember how many catnaps you’ve had today, granddad?”
Seventh lap -
Gio bursts out from the covered bench and bears them both to the ground in a grunting heap. A few minutes of concerted wrestling follows before Mark traps the smaller man beneath him - his face hurts from smiling, his gut from deep, big-bellied laughing.
“You,” he giggles, “are adorable.”
“Really,” Gio says, a demented sparkle in his eyes, his lips pulling into a smile. “How am I supposed to command any respect as captain like this?”
“You’re not,” Mark pants cheerily. “I’ve half a mind to take a picture right now and show Bert - ”
“Daddy’s boy - ”
“Yep!” Mark nods gleefully. “C’mon. Just teaching you a key element of keeping your captaining fresh, Captain.”
“Oh?” Gio’s eyebrows arch. He seems completely comfortable on the dewed grass beneath Mark’s hands. “And that is?”
“Surprise.”
Gio lunges up and kisses Mark hard, his tongue slipping in mostly because Mark’s jaw has fallen open with shock. His hands loosen and his breath catches at the back of his throat as his eyes slip shut on instinct, and when he opens them again, his head spinning, it is to the sensation of the damp pitch beneath his back, soaking into his sweaty top, as Gio pins him to the earth.
“There,” Gio says. He’s got a shit-eating grin spread all over his face. “I’d say I already know about that bit, mmm?”
Mark stares. “Fuck,” he eventually croaks out. “Do that again.”
Gio considers him for a moment, head tilted and eyes narrowed in a wonderful little squint as parts of Mark’s body he doesn’t tend to think about when he’s on a football pitch start to flush and warm. “I thought you were supposed to be a good captain,” he says eventually. The grin widens.
“Well, I’m certainly gonna use that trick more often - mmph.”
“You’d better,” Gio snickers, as he moves on to Mark’s neck, which tilts upwards of its own accord. “It’s the only way you’ll keep these boys under control once I’m gone.”
Trust someone as mad as Gio to turn something this fucking good into a warning, Mark thinks hazily. Hours later he’ll probably think back on this moment and be as scared as he should be, and as worried and as heartbroken and defiant - but for now, he just kisses Gio and is amazed at the delicacy of it, the brittle quiet of this Cape Town winter’s morning.
FIN
Rating: R for language
Wordcount: 584
Pairing: Mark van Bommel/Giovanni van Bronckhorst
Disclaimer: Not mine, not true. Woe.
Summary: A short slice-of-life bit of fluff between two captains at the 2010 World Cup. Requested by autumnsparkle a long time ago; I’m so sorry it took until now!
Gio’s got his tracksuit jacket done up to the very top, his chin and mouth buried behind the collar as he sits on the bench, shivering. Mark thinks he’s a wimp, since even the cool of the South African ‘winter’ morning isn’t that bad, and he says as much - volubly - when he jogs past.
On his second lap Gio is apparently asleep, his head drifting towards his chest and his twitching knee just jerking every once in a while. Mark runs closer to the bench, swipes his feet out from under him, laughs at the disgruntled yelp he elicits, and jogs on.
As he completes his third lap, Gio has one leg crossed over the other and a pout is just emerging over his collar. The fidgeting is back in earnest. Mark grins and dashes sweat out of his eyes. “Old man,” he chirps as he goes past. Gio says nothing.
Fourth lap. “How’s your arthritis?”
Fifth lap. “One more tackle and you’ll need a walker.” Still nothing.
Sixth lap. “Can you remember how many catnaps you’ve had today, granddad?”
Seventh lap -
Gio bursts out from the covered bench and bears them both to the ground in a grunting heap. A few minutes of concerted wrestling follows before Mark traps the smaller man beneath him - his face hurts from smiling, his gut from deep, big-bellied laughing.
“You,” he giggles, “are adorable.”
“Really,” Gio says, a demented sparkle in his eyes, his lips pulling into a smile. “How am I supposed to command any respect as captain like this?”
“You’re not,” Mark pants cheerily. “I’ve half a mind to take a picture right now and show Bert - ”
“Daddy’s boy - ”
“Yep!” Mark nods gleefully. “C’mon. Just teaching you a key element of keeping your captaining fresh, Captain.”
“Oh?” Gio’s eyebrows arch. He seems completely comfortable on the dewed grass beneath Mark’s hands. “And that is?”
“Surprise.”
Gio lunges up and kisses Mark hard, his tongue slipping in mostly because Mark’s jaw has fallen open with shock. His hands loosen and his breath catches at the back of his throat as his eyes slip shut on instinct, and when he opens them again, his head spinning, it is to the sensation of the damp pitch beneath his back, soaking into his sweaty top, as Gio pins him to the earth.
“There,” Gio says. He’s got a shit-eating grin spread all over his face. “I’d say I already know about that bit, mmm?”
Mark stares. “Fuck,” he eventually croaks out. “Do that again.”
Gio considers him for a moment, head tilted and eyes narrowed in a wonderful little squint as parts of Mark’s body he doesn’t tend to think about when he’s on a football pitch start to flush and warm. “I thought you were supposed to be a good captain,” he says eventually. The grin widens.
“Well, I’m certainly gonna use that trick more often - mmph.”
“You’d better,” Gio snickers, as he moves on to Mark’s neck, which tilts upwards of its own accord. “It’s the only way you’ll keep these boys under control once I’m gone.”
Trust someone as mad as Gio to turn something this fucking good into a warning, Mark thinks hazily. Hours later he’ll probably think back on this moment and be as scared as he should be, and as worried and as heartbroken and defiant - but for now, he just kisses Gio and is amazed at the delicacy of it, the brittle quiet of this Cape Town winter’s morning.
FIN