Mothersoccer
Title: Mothersoccer
Author: all_depends
Rating: PG
Warning: Soccer/football
Pairing: Rydon
POV: First, Ryan's
Summary: Whenever he's in the living room watching a bunch of guys kicking the ball back and forth and back and forth, I usually stay in the room or go out. But hearing or seeing the game on doesn't bother me as much as Brendon himself.
Disclaimer: Fake, not real, never happened. The story is mine, not the boys or anything else mentioned.
Beta: all_depends
Author Notes: I'm very sorry if this story sucks. Spain ftw literally.
It's fair to say that Brendon has a habit of reaching a high level of annoyance. But not always do I want to choke him as much as I do right now.
Lately he's had this need to stay glued to the TV set for a couple of hours, and it's all because of the goddamn World Cup that started exactly one month ago. Whenever he's in the living room watching a bunch of guys kicking the ball back and forth and back and forth, I usually stay in the room or go out. But hearing or seeing the game on doesn't bother me as much as Brendon himself. He talks and complains to the TV as if the players could hear him, which is not so bad, I guess. But sometimes he starts talking to me and asking, "Did you see that?!" or "Was that fucked up or what? I almost feel sorry for the English team. Nah, not really. U.S.A.! U.S.A.!"
He also insists that I call it 'football' instead of 'soccer,' and when there's a Latin country playing, he likes to call it 'futbol,' stressing the word maybe a little too much. But I don't think there's anything more obnoxious than the freaking vuvuzela app he found for his iPhone just recently. That fucking buzzing sound makes me want to throw the damn phone to the freaking wall. But I've put up with it and every little thing Brendon does because I've been told that that's what you have to do when you love someone. And, unfortunately, I love Brendon. It's times like these when I'm not so sure whether that applies the other way around.
This Sunday morning would be like any other, except it's not, because now I'm sitting here in front of the TV at 11:30 AM, waiting for Brendon to join in to watch the game. But I'm not watching it because it's the final-I don't even want to be here. I'm watching it because Brendon wanted me so badly to understand his passion and to spend quality time with him. Well, since I'm such a loving boyfriend, I conceded. Okay, there is also a bet involved, which is pretty much the only thing I'm looking forward to.
I skim through the channels and find the one with the soccer game. The monotonous tone of the guys speaking stands out from the muffled sounds of the stadium, and it almost feels as though I'm watching golf. Soon the quietness dies and scares the hell out of me when I hear a loud noise somewhere behind me that sounds like death getting raped. I turn around startled and see Brendon with a real life vuvuzela.
"Where in hell did you get that?!"
"I bought it!" he says, followed by more buzzing.
He comes and sits next to me, a wide grin on his face. Then he takes the remote from the table and changes the channel to a Spanish-speaking one.
"Why did you change it?"
"This one’s better! These guys have more energy!"
And it makes sense, because to Brendon, being surrounded by energy is more important than understanding what is actually being said. Besides, he's right. These men are much more into it. They're also much louder, and the background is louder and clearer, too.
The game starts, and Brendon gets more enthusiastic, yelling, "Go Netherlands! Woo!"
I merely watch, arms crossed and body slouched. There is nothing more exciting than watching men run around with a ball and eternally waiting for someone to score. At least there's beer, and there's really no further description necessary when I say there's beer.
It's half-time, and no one has scored.
"Don't worry, Ry, we'll win. You'll see."
"Really? Because Spain almost scored several times. I've got this."
"Oh, yeah? You wanna bet?"
"Brendon, we're already betting."
"Oh, yeah."
Brendon goes to the bathroom while I wait. I take a sip from my beer before noticing the vuvuzela. If I get rid of it, Brendon will obviously know it was me. But then again, it's better to ask for forgiveness than for permission. I take the Devil's trumpet and get up. My first thought is to throw it out, so I walk toward the door. For some weird reason, I remember a kink I saw in Cyanide and Happiness, and I change my mind. Maybe having this thing around for a while won't hurt.
I sit back down quickly before Brendon sees me and wait for the game to start again. We watch for the rest of the game, and the score is still 0-0. I can tell that Brendon is tired, and I'm not all that overjoyed either. Fifteen minutes pass, and still nothing. But then, just minutes before they declare the end of it, something happens. I see it so close, and I think I dig my nails all the way into Brendon's thigh when Spain scores one point.
"Oh shit, haha! Yes! Goal! Yes! Haha, you so lost, dude! I won! Yeah!"
Brendon looks away from me, and I know he's mad-well, not really, considering it's Brendon.
"Dude, c'mon, let's make you pretty."
"No, wait, the game isn't over yet. We've got a few minutes left."
"Okay, whatever you say," I say sarcastically, knowing this bet is all mine.
I keep watching for the minutes remaining, eating my nails and praying to God that this is over already. I laugh nervously every time the Spaniards take the ball from Holland, and soon enough, my relief comes fully.
I look at Brendon, who looks back at me, and I see that pout he loves to play on me.
"Oh, no, that ain't working this time," I tell him. This is gonna be sweet.
*!*
"Ohmyshitmothersuckerahh!!!" Brendon yells, and he laughs from the pain.
I smile because I'm evil.
And that was the day I waxed Brendon's legs.
A/N: I didn't know how to describe the vuvuzela sound, so I googled "vuvuzela sounds like" and this is what came up: link
And the C&H reference is here: link
Yay for Spain! n_n
Author: all_depends
Rating: PG
Warning: Soccer/football
Pairing: Rydon
POV: First, Ryan's
Summary: Whenever he's in the living room watching a bunch of guys kicking the ball back and forth and back and forth, I usually stay in the room or go out. But hearing or seeing the game on doesn't bother me as much as Brendon himself.
Disclaimer: Fake, not real, never happened. The story is mine, not the boys or anything else mentioned.
Beta: all_depends
Author Notes: I'm very sorry if this story sucks. Spain ftw literally.
It's fair to say that Brendon has a habit of reaching a high level of annoyance. But not always do I want to choke him as much as I do right now.
Lately he's had this need to stay glued to the TV set for a couple of hours, and it's all because of the goddamn World Cup that started exactly one month ago. Whenever he's in the living room watching a bunch of guys kicking the ball back and forth and back and forth, I usually stay in the room or go out. But hearing or seeing the game on doesn't bother me as much as Brendon himself. He talks and complains to the TV as if the players could hear him, which is not so bad, I guess. But sometimes he starts talking to me and asking, "Did you see that?!" or "Was that fucked up or what? I almost feel sorry for the English team. Nah, not really. U.S.A.! U.S.A.!"
He also insists that I call it 'football' instead of 'soccer,' and when there's a Latin country playing, he likes to call it 'futbol,' stressing the word maybe a little too much. But I don't think there's anything more obnoxious than the freaking vuvuzela app he found for his iPhone just recently. That fucking buzzing sound makes me want to throw the damn phone to the freaking wall. But I've put up with it and every little thing Brendon does because I've been told that that's what you have to do when you love someone. And, unfortunately, I love Brendon. It's times like these when I'm not so sure whether that applies the other way around.
This Sunday morning would be like any other, except it's not, because now I'm sitting here in front of the TV at 11:30 AM, waiting for Brendon to join in to watch the game. But I'm not watching it because it's the final-I don't even want to be here. I'm watching it because Brendon wanted me so badly to understand his passion and to spend quality time with him. Well, since I'm such a loving boyfriend, I conceded. Okay, there is also a bet involved, which is pretty much the only thing I'm looking forward to.
I skim through the channels and find the one with the soccer game. The monotonous tone of the guys speaking stands out from the muffled sounds of the stadium, and it almost feels as though I'm watching golf. Soon the quietness dies and scares the hell out of me when I hear a loud noise somewhere behind me that sounds like death getting raped. I turn around startled and see Brendon with a real life vuvuzela.
"Where in hell did you get that?!"
"I bought it!" he says, followed by more buzzing.
He comes and sits next to me, a wide grin on his face. Then he takes the remote from the table and changes the channel to a Spanish-speaking one.
"Why did you change it?"
"This one’s better! These guys have more energy!"
And it makes sense, because to Brendon, being surrounded by energy is more important than understanding what is actually being said. Besides, he's right. These men are much more into it. They're also much louder, and the background is louder and clearer, too.
The game starts, and Brendon gets more enthusiastic, yelling, "Go Netherlands! Woo!"
I merely watch, arms crossed and body slouched. There is nothing more exciting than watching men run around with a ball and eternally waiting for someone to score. At least there's beer, and there's really no further description necessary when I say there's beer.
It's half-time, and no one has scored.
"Don't worry, Ry, we'll win. You'll see."
"Really? Because Spain almost scored several times. I've got this."
"Oh, yeah? You wanna bet?"
"Brendon, we're already betting."
"Oh, yeah."
Brendon goes to the bathroom while I wait. I take a sip from my beer before noticing the vuvuzela. If I get rid of it, Brendon will obviously know it was me. But then again, it's better to ask for forgiveness than for permission. I take the Devil's trumpet and get up. My first thought is to throw it out, so I walk toward the door. For some weird reason, I remember a kink I saw in Cyanide and Happiness, and I change my mind. Maybe having this thing around for a while won't hurt.
I sit back down quickly before Brendon sees me and wait for the game to start again. We watch for the rest of the game, and the score is still 0-0. I can tell that Brendon is tired, and I'm not all that overjoyed either. Fifteen minutes pass, and still nothing. But then, just minutes before they declare the end of it, something happens. I see it so close, and I think I dig my nails all the way into Brendon's thigh when Spain scores one point.
"Oh shit, haha! Yes! Goal! Yes! Haha, you so lost, dude! I won! Yeah!"
Brendon looks away from me, and I know he's mad-well, not really, considering it's Brendon.
"Dude, c'mon, let's make you pretty."
"No, wait, the game isn't over yet. We've got a few minutes left."
"Okay, whatever you say," I say sarcastically, knowing this bet is all mine.
I keep watching for the minutes remaining, eating my nails and praying to God that this is over already. I laugh nervously every time the Spaniards take the ball from Holland, and soon enough, my relief comes fully.
I look at Brendon, who looks back at me, and I see that pout he loves to play on me.
"Oh, no, that ain't working this time," I tell him. This is gonna be sweet.
*!*
"Ohmyshitmothersuckerahh!!!" Brendon yells, and he laughs from the pain.
I smile because I'm evil.
And that was the day I waxed Brendon's legs.
A/N: I didn't know how to describe the vuvuzela sound, so I googled "vuvuzela sounds like" and this is what came up: link
And the C&H reference is here: link
Yay for Spain! n_n