Two Times
by great_whatsit
Adrian shifted in his seat, fidgeting with his cuffs again. The damp, almost suffocating summer air did nothing to calm his nerves, and he ran his hand through his hair, unconsciously preening as he waited.
There had been another dinner like this, impossibly long ago. In a different city, a different season. It had been cold then, and he’d been young. Young and terrified, trying to hide his fear behind a puffed-out chest and a few clipped words of awful Italian.
He had never understood why the great Christian Vieri took an interest in him, and had instinctively seen his invitation as a challenge, a claiming of the city. It was way of telling Adrian that Milan would never be his, but that it could be visited with the proper guide. (And he’d been right, Adrian knew. It still hurt to admit it, but he’d been right.)
***
Adrian tried to stand up to the Italian, to provide a challenge, but it was hard to push back when he didn’t understand what he was facing. Vieri watched him with a little smile most of the time, periodically trying to explain something in English Adrian barely understood, but mostly just watching. Watching and smiling, like he was right about something, and was pleased with himself for figuring it out. It made Adrian furious; his nerves and his anger and his inability to express himself drove him into a frustrated, sullen silence by the time the main course came, but Vieri didn’t even seem to notice.
He just kept smiling, dropping his eyes and gesturing periodically with his fork, then watching Adrian closely as he spoke a mixture of languages, not particularly caring whether he got a response. Vieri was impossibly content, savoring his dinner, enjoying the wine, focusing all his attention on the ferocious boy sitting across from him.
Even then, through his confusion and fury, Adrian had a grudging sense of the generosity of the moment -- he knew Christian Vieri had no reason to be here, no reason to pay attention to him. And yet, he was here, seemingly enjoying himself immensely, which somehow made Adrian even madder. He felt he was being mocked, and couldn’t stand his own inability to have an effect on Vieri’s mood.
***
Adrian’s chest tightened as he remembered that night, the frustration roaring back, combining with lingering shame at how he’d acted. But it was going to be different tonight. Florence might be Christian’s city, but the Viola were Adrian’s team; it was his turn to extend the invitation, to help the newcomer settle in. He pulled at his sleeves again, scanning the street for the familiar, oddly graceful gait.
***
Draining his wine glass again, Adrian glared across the table at the Italian, challenging him before he remembered the futility of the effort. The other man just grinned, and gestured for another bottle. He shifted in his chair and leaned forward with his forearms on the table, his perpetually disheveled appearance masking the sneaky intelligence in his eyes. Adrian recoiled briefly then froze, hating himself for the show of weakness and raising his chin in response, keeping his eyes on Vieri’s.
“Relax,” he said, the easy smile still in place. “Calma.” Adrian didn’t move, didn’t even blink. He had no idea what was going on, but he knew enough not to mess it up by ending his silence now. Above the quiet, ever-present grin, Vieri’s eyes were soft and serious, and Adrian couldn’t even think about looking away. “You ... “ He sighed, speaking slowly, trying to make the Romanian understand. “You have to relax. It ... You won’t survive like this.” He shook his head and gestured at Adrian, a movement that somehow encompassed everything about the other man; Adrian felt his stomach knot again, in a different way.
***
Adrian could feel the sweat beading on his chest, threatening to stain his crisp linen shirt. He absently rubbed his face, barely keeping from rolling his eyes at his own pitiful attempt to look casual. How could Vieri be so focused and so in control, and yet so incapable of being on time?
***
The second bottle of wine had come and gone, and Christian was looking at him curiously, his eyes huge and brown. Adrian felt like if he moved, everything would tear, and he’d be himself again, terrified and pissed off and alone. So he stayed where he was, mostly staring at Christian’s mouth as he talked and trying to control his urge to lean further across the table, to get closer. He smiled when Christian smiled and laughed when the eyes told him to, comprehending less and less as the night slipped away. (He was losing the words, but he was understanding more clearly.) He knew it was stupid, but he wasn’t angry anymore. He was still scared, but he felt safe, for once, like nothing would happen to him. As long as he didn’t move. Never moved again.
***
Adrian signaled the waiter and ordered a bottle of wine, then thought it might be the wrong bottle and cancelled the order, settling for water instead. Why was he so fucking nervous? This was his dinner; he was the one who belonged.
***
“What are you afraid of?” He heard it close to his ear and started, woozily surprised to find his arm slug around broad shoulders. Christian had an answering arm wrapped around his waist and a tight grip on the hand that brushed against his chest, and was walking him steadily somewhere. The air was cold, Adrian was sure they were outside. Beyond that he didn’t know, didn’t ask. Instead, he settled into the warmth next to him and closed his eyes, moving his feet whenever he remembered to try.
The voice at his ear spoke again. “What are you afraid of?” Somewhere on the edge of his mind, he understood the words, felt like he understood everything, just for a second. But he shook his head, pretending what he heard was just sounds, and pressed his face into Christian’s neck when he stopped, not thinking of anything, just breathing.
***
Adrian looked up, and Christian was there. Had been there for a while, Adrian was sure. Older, but looking down at him with that same, small smile. Watching, examining. Adrian felt his face flush under the scrutiny, felt that near-forgotten anger start to rise, but he forced it down and gazed back, trying to ignore the pounding in his ears.
Christian nodded slightly, almost in approval. “You look good. How are you?”
Adrian opened his mouth to speak and then stopped, sifting through the years in his mind. He saw faces, headlines; felt that fear rise and fall as they came and went. He squinted slightly, wondering how to explain it all. “I ... I’m better.”
Then he was being pulled to his feet and into Christian. (Softer, now, but just as warm.) He had vague, foolish thoughts about sweat and his shirt, and it being far too hot to touch anyone, but they were faint, and quickly forced aside by the frightened boy inside him who was melting, but not with the heat. He let his face find Christian’s neck and breathed, unmoving and unthinking.
Author’s Note: Christian Vieri took Adrian Mutu out to dinner shortly after the latter arrived at Inter in January of 2000. Last summer, Vieri moved to Fiorentina, a club Mutu had joined during the summer of 2006.
Thanks to finnygan for the beta.
Adrian shifted in his seat, fidgeting with his cuffs again. The damp, almost suffocating summer air did nothing to calm his nerves, and he ran his hand through his hair, unconsciously preening as he waited.
There had been another dinner like this, impossibly long ago. In a different city, a different season. It had been cold then, and he’d been young. Young and terrified, trying to hide his fear behind a puffed-out chest and a few clipped words of awful Italian.
He had never understood why the great Christian Vieri took an interest in him, and had instinctively seen his invitation as a challenge, a claiming of the city. It was way of telling Adrian that Milan would never be his, but that it could be visited with the proper guide. (And he’d been right, Adrian knew. It still hurt to admit it, but he’d been right.)
***
Adrian tried to stand up to the Italian, to provide a challenge, but it was hard to push back when he didn’t understand what he was facing. Vieri watched him with a little smile most of the time, periodically trying to explain something in English Adrian barely understood, but mostly just watching. Watching and smiling, like he was right about something, and was pleased with himself for figuring it out. It made Adrian furious; his nerves and his anger and his inability to express himself drove him into a frustrated, sullen silence by the time the main course came, but Vieri didn’t even seem to notice.
He just kept smiling, dropping his eyes and gesturing periodically with his fork, then watching Adrian closely as he spoke a mixture of languages, not particularly caring whether he got a response. Vieri was impossibly content, savoring his dinner, enjoying the wine, focusing all his attention on the ferocious boy sitting across from him.
Even then, through his confusion and fury, Adrian had a grudging sense of the generosity of the moment -- he knew Christian Vieri had no reason to be here, no reason to pay attention to him. And yet, he was here, seemingly enjoying himself immensely, which somehow made Adrian even madder. He felt he was being mocked, and couldn’t stand his own inability to have an effect on Vieri’s mood.
***
Adrian’s chest tightened as he remembered that night, the frustration roaring back, combining with lingering shame at how he’d acted. But it was going to be different tonight. Florence might be Christian’s city, but the Viola were Adrian’s team; it was his turn to extend the invitation, to help the newcomer settle in. He pulled at his sleeves again, scanning the street for the familiar, oddly graceful gait.
***
Draining his wine glass again, Adrian glared across the table at the Italian, challenging him before he remembered the futility of the effort. The other man just grinned, and gestured for another bottle. He shifted in his chair and leaned forward with his forearms on the table, his perpetually disheveled appearance masking the sneaky intelligence in his eyes. Adrian recoiled briefly then froze, hating himself for the show of weakness and raising his chin in response, keeping his eyes on Vieri’s.
“Relax,” he said, the easy smile still in place. “Calma.” Adrian didn’t move, didn’t even blink. He had no idea what was going on, but he knew enough not to mess it up by ending his silence now. Above the quiet, ever-present grin, Vieri’s eyes were soft and serious, and Adrian couldn’t even think about looking away. “You ... “ He sighed, speaking slowly, trying to make the Romanian understand. “You have to relax. It ... You won’t survive like this.” He shook his head and gestured at Adrian, a movement that somehow encompassed everything about the other man; Adrian felt his stomach knot again, in a different way.
***
Adrian could feel the sweat beading on his chest, threatening to stain his crisp linen shirt. He absently rubbed his face, barely keeping from rolling his eyes at his own pitiful attempt to look casual. How could Vieri be so focused and so in control, and yet so incapable of being on time?
***
The second bottle of wine had come and gone, and Christian was looking at him curiously, his eyes huge and brown. Adrian felt like if he moved, everything would tear, and he’d be himself again, terrified and pissed off and alone. So he stayed where he was, mostly staring at Christian’s mouth as he talked and trying to control his urge to lean further across the table, to get closer. He smiled when Christian smiled and laughed when the eyes told him to, comprehending less and less as the night slipped away. (He was losing the words, but he was understanding more clearly.) He knew it was stupid, but he wasn’t angry anymore. He was still scared, but he felt safe, for once, like nothing would happen to him. As long as he didn’t move. Never moved again.
***
Adrian signaled the waiter and ordered a bottle of wine, then thought it might be the wrong bottle and cancelled the order, settling for water instead. Why was he so fucking nervous? This was his dinner; he was the one who belonged.
***
“What are you afraid of?” He heard it close to his ear and started, woozily surprised to find his arm slug around broad shoulders. Christian had an answering arm wrapped around his waist and a tight grip on the hand that brushed against his chest, and was walking him steadily somewhere. The air was cold, Adrian was sure they were outside. Beyond that he didn’t know, didn’t ask. Instead, he settled into the warmth next to him and closed his eyes, moving his feet whenever he remembered to try.
The voice at his ear spoke again. “What are you afraid of?” Somewhere on the edge of his mind, he understood the words, felt like he understood everything, just for a second. But he shook his head, pretending what he heard was just sounds, and pressed his face into Christian’s neck when he stopped, not thinking of anything, just breathing.
***
Adrian looked up, and Christian was there. Had been there for a while, Adrian was sure. Older, but looking down at him with that same, small smile. Watching, examining. Adrian felt his face flush under the scrutiny, felt that near-forgotten anger start to rise, but he forced it down and gazed back, trying to ignore the pounding in his ears.
Christian nodded slightly, almost in approval. “You look good. How are you?”
Adrian opened his mouth to speak and then stopped, sifting through the years in his mind. He saw faces, headlines; felt that fear rise and fall as they came and went. He squinted slightly, wondering how to explain it all. “I ... I’m better.”
Then he was being pulled to his feet and into Christian. (Softer, now, but just as warm.) He had vague, foolish thoughts about sweat and his shirt, and it being far too hot to touch anyone, but they were faint, and quickly forced aside by the frightened boy inside him who was melting, but not with the heat. He let his face find Christian’s neck and breathed, unmoving and unthinking.
Author’s Note: Christian Vieri took Adrian Mutu out to dinner shortly after the latter arrived at Inter in January of 2000. Last summer, Vieri moved to Fiorentina, a club Mutu had joined during the summer of 2006.
Thanks to finnygan for the beta.