fic: counting down, kaka/sheva
Ever since that damned transfer window closed, I've wanted to write this fic. I'd planned it to span over those weird, uncertain weeks before Sheva left, when he kept saying he wasn't, but as much as I tried, I could never get into the right headspace to do that. So there's just this, a reaction piece, I guess. I still feel extremely ambivalent towards the event itself, but I will admit, it makes good fic. I might warn that it's a touch on the depressing side. And by a touch, I mean, you know, a lot.
counting down
kaka/sheva, the anatomy of a goodbye. (mature, 1,702 words.)
They sit at the kitchen table, across from each other, like an interrogation. Kaka has his hands folded one over the other, his thumbs tucked beneath the protective shelter of his fingers, and he can't look up from the delicate fort they make, can't look away. The tense line of his mouth says, I know, and the deflated slump of his shoulders says, I rather wish I didn't. If he was to look up, just for a moment, he'd see the way Sheva's eyes roam the kitchen, sliding over the shiny appliances and ceramic tiles they picked out together but always returning to settle on Kaka, hooded and dark and oh so repentant. Guilty of his crimes, then.
Kaka is only twenty-four, barely a man, but he feels ancient, hunched over the table, weary. It's over, all the questioning and the waiting, it's all over and he's so tired, exhaustion that runs bone-deep. Too tired to fight anymore, too tired to lash out where it'll cut the deepest, the way that only he can. This isn't something he knows how to deal with, the slow wear down, the long path of deception and secrecy that's led him here, to this one final, awful truth. This is the thing he's always feared, the one thing he never thought would happen. He can handle broken bones and torn ligaments, he can handle a loss on the field, the boos of a crowd, but not this. God, not this. His fingers move restlessly, blindly, searching for something to make it all stop, make it go away: the rewind button, maybe. This isn't the way it was supposed to end, this is no happy ending.
"It's for the best," Sheva says, and Kaka can't let himself believe it.
Kaka stands in the door of the bedroom, propped against the wooden frame, his arms wrapped around himself, a shield to keep the cold out. The landscape is a familiar one: the half-open closet door, Sheva's mahogany desk, the antique rocking chair by the window, their bed. It's not even made, the bed, the sheets pushed down to the end, the pillows disarrayed, two grooves in the mattress that fit their bodies perfectly. One that won't be filled again. Kaka clutches a tight fist to his chest, fingernails slicing past a thin layer of skin, and closes his eyes. He never knew coming apart at the seams would be this painful.
"I'll need to get my things," Sheva says, quiet, from behind him.
The sting doesn't quite fade. "I suppose you will."
"Kaka..." But he doesn't continue.
Sheva moves past him, into the room, the brief flash of bodyheat and cologne making something tighten low in Kaka's body, a gut impulse. Even now, Kaka wants him, watches him move in the room they've shared for years, aching with a loss too great to even fully comprehend, and still his body reacts. Betrays him. No, he can't even trust himself. Sheva reaches the closet and the sight of him there, reaching inside, pulling out his clothes from among Kaka's own, still as beautiful to Kaka as he was the first day they met, sparks something inside of him.
"Wait," Kaka says, "let me help."
Sheva turns, caught off-guard. His mouth is posed to present a protest but Kaka is there before he can speak, shouldering him out of the way, brute strength and the element of surprise. Kaka grabs a hanger, a pair of khaki slacks folded over, and shoves them at Sheva. There's something inside of him, something building slowly, gaining momentum, and he's afraid of it, ridiculously so, so he just keeps grabbing. Sweaters and leather jackets and expensive jeans land on the ground, some of them Sheva's, some of them not, a crisp white shirt smeared with the blood from Kaka's palm landing on top. By the time Sheva stops him, grabs him by the arms and physically hauls him away from the wrecked closet, Kaka's panting, his eyes wild, out of control.
Sheva yanks Kaka away, fighting each step like parent and stubborn child, until Kaka's pressed to the edge of the desk, bent half over. Sheva leans close, in his face, hissing, "Stop it. Stop it right now."
"I fucking hate you!" There's hysteria in his voice, Kaka can hear it, but he can't stop himself. "I hate you so much. How can you do this to me? How can you leave me like this? You bastard, you fucking bastard. Don't you love me at all, Sheva?"
There's a shaky exhale, a soft sound much like a whimper, that falls between them to mingle with their harsh breathing. The quiet stretches between them and Kaka leans into the bruising grip on his biceps, hates himself for it, but melds to the touch. He wants Sheva to kiss him and tell him it's all a lie, just a cruel joke, even tilts his chin forward in anticipation, but it doesn't happen that way.
After a second, Sheva releases him, and Kaka runs.
"I'm sorry," Sheva says, "but I have my reasons."
Kaka won't look at him.
"There's so much to take into account with a decision like this. I have my family to think about, Kaka."
"What about me?" Kaka asks. "Aren't I your family, too?"
There's no response, and Kaka looks up from where he sits on the couch, tucked in against the arm, his legs up on the cushion, held close to his chest. Sheva is there, standing not two feet away, and looking so matter-of-fact that Kaka feels his world breaking all over again, everything crumbling apart once more. It's all the answer he needs.
"It wasn't simple, you have to know that. I'm not walking away from this easily," Sheva says, coming closer.
"But you are. You are walking away from this." Kaka shakes his head. "That's all that matters."
Sheva kneels before the couch, one of his hands settling on Kaka's knee, gentle, and it's too much. Kaka's breath hitches, a warning that gives him enough time to turn his face before the tears come, enough time to hide his defeat. But Sheva won't let him keep this pain private, grabs his chin so he can't turn away. He doesn't know who initiates it, him or Sheva, but somehow their mouths find each other, their kiss damp and wholly desperate. Kaka arches away from the couch, pulling and pulled closer, his arms wrapping tight around Sheva's neck, falling back into his embrace so easily.
"Please," he whispers against Sheva's mouth, "please, Andriy."
Then he's being pushed back into the couch, Sheva on top of him, holding him down, hands slipping beneath his shirt, touching him so wrong and just right. Kaka gasps and Sheva's mouth slides away from his, down his neck, rough lips and an edge of teeth, Sheva tracing the path from his chin to his collarbone like so many times before. It hurts so badly to want this, but Kaka can't help himself, just can't. He's powerless under Sheva. The hands under Kaka's shirt twist and tug the fabric up, off over his head and tossed to the floor behind them. Fingers move over his chest, down his body, playing him like a fiddle, and all Kaka can do is hold onto Sheva's shoulders, trembling.
"You want me?" Kaka asks, hands sliding to Sheva's jaw, tilting his face up, trying to find his eyes, searching. "I'm yours, you know I am. I always have been. Whatever you want, you can have. Just stay. Stay with me, Sheva."
Sheva kisses him to quiet him down, then pulls away, a hand at Kaka's hip, turning him over.
It's quicker than either of them expect it to be and somehow impersonal. The passion's already fading, disappearing in the distance, and Kaka doesn't know how to get it back. Sheva pulls out when he's done, moves away, and the warmth at Kaka's back fades quickly. He doesn't say anything. Kaka rests his forehead against the back of the couch, his eyes closed but dry, no sting behind his eyelids, just nothing, nothing at all.
"You should shower," Sheva says, zipping his fly.
Kaka's afraid he'll be gone by the time he's done, but he nods. There's not a time he can remember when he didn't do what Sheva told him to. Now is no different.
Sheva's not gone when he gets out, but waiting for him instead. He's sitting at the end of the bed, among the rumpled bedclothes, a full duffle bag at his side, the mess from the closet gone. He looks up when Kaka steps out of the bathroom, still dripping from the shower, moisture seeping into the carpet out from his feet like a shadow, spreading. They don't say anything, simply look at one another. The space between them seems unending, too much to bridge in the short time they have, it seems futile to even try.
"I'm going now," Sheva says.
"When the season's over, will you come back?" Kaka asks.
"I don't know."
Sheva stands from the bed, picking up his jacket from where it rests atop the bag, folding it over one arm.
"Will you come visit?"
"I don't know."
He takes the duffle then turns, his back to Kaka, but doesn't move to leave. They stand that way, Kaka staring at the broad stretch of Sheva's back, the elegant slope of his neck, memorizing this last moment. Because he knows, deep down, he knows, this is it, this is all he gets.
"Will you call?"
There's no answer.
When Sheva reaches the door, he glances back over his shoulder, his eyes lingering on Kaka, before his hand is on the doorknob, turning. They don't exchange endearments, they don't make promises, they don't do much of anything. Once Sheva's had his fill, gotten whatever it is he needed, he nods, once, then goes. He slips around the corner, his footsteps fading down the hall, and Kaka doesn't stop him.
The sheets still smell of Sheva when Kaka slides beneath them, wrapping them around his bare body, comforting and yet entirely not. He rests his head down on the pillows and his eyes settle on a picture, framed and resting on the bedside table, of them. He supposes he'll get through this, and that, that's the worst part of all.
Eventually, Kaka turns onto his side, facing away, and goes to sleep.
counting down
kaka/sheva, the anatomy of a goodbye. (mature, 1,702 words.)
They sit at the kitchen table, across from each other, like an interrogation. Kaka has his hands folded one over the other, his thumbs tucked beneath the protective shelter of his fingers, and he can't look up from the delicate fort they make, can't look away. The tense line of his mouth says, I know, and the deflated slump of his shoulders says, I rather wish I didn't. If he was to look up, just for a moment, he'd see the way Sheva's eyes roam the kitchen, sliding over the shiny appliances and ceramic tiles they picked out together but always returning to settle on Kaka, hooded and dark and oh so repentant. Guilty of his crimes, then.
Kaka is only twenty-four, barely a man, but he feels ancient, hunched over the table, weary. It's over, all the questioning and the waiting, it's all over and he's so tired, exhaustion that runs bone-deep. Too tired to fight anymore, too tired to lash out where it'll cut the deepest, the way that only he can. This isn't something he knows how to deal with, the slow wear down, the long path of deception and secrecy that's led him here, to this one final, awful truth. This is the thing he's always feared, the one thing he never thought would happen. He can handle broken bones and torn ligaments, he can handle a loss on the field, the boos of a crowd, but not this. God, not this. His fingers move restlessly, blindly, searching for something to make it all stop, make it go away: the rewind button, maybe. This isn't the way it was supposed to end, this is no happy ending.
"It's for the best," Sheva says, and Kaka can't let himself believe it.
Kaka stands in the door of the bedroom, propped against the wooden frame, his arms wrapped around himself, a shield to keep the cold out. The landscape is a familiar one: the half-open closet door, Sheva's mahogany desk, the antique rocking chair by the window, their bed. It's not even made, the bed, the sheets pushed down to the end, the pillows disarrayed, two grooves in the mattress that fit their bodies perfectly. One that won't be filled again. Kaka clutches a tight fist to his chest, fingernails slicing past a thin layer of skin, and closes his eyes. He never knew coming apart at the seams would be this painful.
"I'll need to get my things," Sheva says, quiet, from behind him.
The sting doesn't quite fade. "I suppose you will."
"Kaka..." But he doesn't continue.
Sheva moves past him, into the room, the brief flash of bodyheat and cologne making something tighten low in Kaka's body, a gut impulse. Even now, Kaka wants him, watches him move in the room they've shared for years, aching with a loss too great to even fully comprehend, and still his body reacts. Betrays him. No, he can't even trust himself. Sheva reaches the closet and the sight of him there, reaching inside, pulling out his clothes from among Kaka's own, still as beautiful to Kaka as he was the first day they met, sparks something inside of him.
"Wait," Kaka says, "let me help."
Sheva turns, caught off-guard. His mouth is posed to present a protest but Kaka is there before he can speak, shouldering him out of the way, brute strength and the element of surprise. Kaka grabs a hanger, a pair of khaki slacks folded over, and shoves them at Sheva. There's something inside of him, something building slowly, gaining momentum, and he's afraid of it, ridiculously so, so he just keeps grabbing. Sweaters and leather jackets and expensive jeans land on the ground, some of them Sheva's, some of them not, a crisp white shirt smeared with the blood from Kaka's palm landing on top. By the time Sheva stops him, grabs him by the arms and physically hauls him away from the wrecked closet, Kaka's panting, his eyes wild, out of control.
Sheva yanks Kaka away, fighting each step like parent and stubborn child, until Kaka's pressed to the edge of the desk, bent half over. Sheva leans close, in his face, hissing, "Stop it. Stop it right now."
"I fucking hate you!" There's hysteria in his voice, Kaka can hear it, but he can't stop himself. "I hate you so much. How can you do this to me? How can you leave me like this? You bastard, you fucking bastard. Don't you love me at all, Sheva?"
There's a shaky exhale, a soft sound much like a whimper, that falls between them to mingle with their harsh breathing. The quiet stretches between them and Kaka leans into the bruising grip on his biceps, hates himself for it, but melds to the touch. He wants Sheva to kiss him and tell him it's all a lie, just a cruel joke, even tilts his chin forward in anticipation, but it doesn't happen that way.
After a second, Sheva releases him, and Kaka runs.
"I'm sorry," Sheva says, "but I have my reasons."
Kaka won't look at him.
"There's so much to take into account with a decision like this. I have my family to think about, Kaka."
"What about me?" Kaka asks. "Aren't I your family, too?"
There's no response, and Kaka looks up from where he sits on the couch, tucked in against the arm, his legs up on the cushion, held close to his chest. Sheva is there, standing not two feet away, and looking so matter-of-fact that Kaka feels his world breaking all over again, everything crumbling apart once more. It's all the answer he needs.
"It wasn't simple, you have to know that. I'm not walking away from this easily," Sheva says, coming closer.
"But you are. You are walking away from this." Kaka shakes his head. "That's all that matters."
Sheva kneels before the couch, one of his hands settling on Kaka's knee, gentle, and it's too much. Kaka's breath hitches, a warning that gives him enough time to turn his face before the tears come, enough time to hide his defeat. But Sheva won't let him keep this pain private, grabs his chin so he can't turn away. He doesn't know who initiates it, him or Sheva, but somehow their mouths find each other, their kiss damp and wholly desperate. Kaka arches away from the couch, pulling and pulled closer, his arms wrapping tight around Sheva's neck, falling back into his embrace so easily.
"Please," he whispers against Sheva's mouth, "please, Andriy."
Then he's being pushed back into the couch, Sheva on top of him, holding him down, hands slipping beneath his shirt, touching him so wrong and just right. Kaka gasps and Sheva's mouth slides away from his, down his neck, rough lips and an edge of teeth, Sheva tracing the path from his chin to his collarbone like so many times before. It hurts so badly to want this, but Kaka can't help himself, just can't. He's powerless under Sheva. The hands under Kaka's shirt twist and tug the fabric up, off over his head and tossed to the floor behind them. Fingers move over his chest, down his body, playing him like a fiddle, and all Kaka can do is hold onto Sheva's shoulders, trembling.
"You want me?" Kaka asks, hands sliding to Sheva's jaw, tilting his face up, trying to find his eyes, searching. "I'm yours, you know I am. I always have been. Whatever you want, you can have. Just stay. Stay with me, Sheva."
Sheva kisses him to quiet him down, then pulls away, a hand at Kaka's hip, turning him over.
It's quicker than either of them expect it to be and somehow impersonal. The passion's already fading, disappearing in the distance, and Kaka doesn't know how to get it back. Sheva pulls out when he's done, moves away, and the warmth at Kaka's back fades quickly. He doesn't say anything. Kaka rests his forehead against the back of the couch, his eyes closed but dry, no sting behind his eyelids, just nothing, nothing at all.
"You should shower," Sheva says, zipping his fly.
Kaka's afraid he'll be gone by the time he's done, but he nods. There's not a time he can remember when he didn't do what Sheva told him to. Now is no different.
Sheva's not gone when he gets out, but waiting for him instead. He's sitting at the end of the bed, among the rumpled bedclothes, a full duffle bag at his side, the mess from the closet gone. He looks up when Kaka steps out of the bathroom, still dripping from the shower, moisture seeping into the carpet out from his feet like a shadow, spreading. They don't say anything, simply look at one another. The space between them seems unending, too much to bridge in the short time they have, it seems futile to even try.
"I'm going now," Sheva says.
"When the season's over, will you come back?" Kaka asks.
"I don't know."
Sheva stands from the bed, picking up his jacket from where it rests atop the bag, folding it over one arm.
"Will you come visit?"
"I don't know."
He takes the duffle then turns, his back to Kaka, but doesn't move to leave. They stand that way, Kaka staring at the broad stretch of Sheva's back, the elegant slope of his neck, memorizing this last moment. Because he knows, deep down, he knows, this is it, this is all he gets.
"Will you call?"
There's no answer.
When Sheva reaches the door, he glances back over his shoulder, his eyes lingering on Kaka, before his hand is on the doorknob, turning. They don't exchange endearments, they don't make promises, they don't do much of anything. Once Sheva's had his fill, gotten whatever it is he needed, he nods, once, then goes. He slips around the corner, his footsteps fading down the hall, and Kaka doesn't stop him.
The sheets still smell of Sheva when Kaka slides beneath them, wrapping them around his bare body, comforting and yet entirely not. He rests his head down on the pillows and his eyes settle on a picture, framed and resting on the bedside table, of them. He supposes he'll get through this, and that, that's the worst part of all.
Eventually, Kaka turns onto his side, facing away, and goes to sleep.