fic.
i read a bunch of fics over the past two days and am gonna fb the authors... tomorrow. i'm just knackered today. hence the idiotic title. i'll need to change it... later. lol.
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wordcount: 810
rated: pg
characters: Fabio Grosso, Zlatan Ibrahimović
caring
it’s a disaster, no matter how much damage control Mancini will attempt in front of the press later. and they’re a major part of that disaster. so they’re read the riot act by their elders and betters. Fabio takes it like a man, mature and appropriately ashamed, still in his full kit. nodding along, aware of what behaviour like this might cost them (cost him).
Fabio catches himself mentally filing Hernán’s current expression away. that mixture of patience running into contempt, stern disappointment. Fabio has to conclude that he wouldn’t be pull it off, himself.
as for Zlatan - Zlatan tries. only it’s hard to pretend that you care when you don’t care but have a strange suspicion that you should.
Zlatan the other night: flushed and loutish, generous with the drinks, as triumphant as after a win. he’s got a paper napkin from somewhere, on which he misspells his baby son’s name thrice; ends up scrawling MAX in huge letters across Fabio’s arm.
‘I like the name,’ Fabio said. Zlatan, then, yelling over the pounding music, ‘WHAT?’ in huge letters across Fabio’s ear. Fabio yelling back, ‘I LIKE THE NAME.’ Laughing. Zlatan laughing back, ‘IT’S A FANTASTIC NAME, YOU ASS.’
Fabio pushing down the sleeve of his jacket, saved from the embarrassment of blurting out that it tickled by the arrival of someone else with congratulations.
the thing about Crespo. that’s the second time in as many days, by the way. the first time was in front of Marco, who sort of rolled his eyes or smiled, Fabio couldn’t figure out which. he also could not figure out whether it was supposed to mean, ‘you’re asking me?’ or ‘it’s just shit, it won’t kill you.’
Zlatan was unusually quiet then, across the room. lingering without actually breaking into the not-really-conversation. purposeless fingers on the bench. Fabio wanted to walk over and press his hand down on top of Zlatan’s. and say something reassuring, like, I’m scared, too. we’ll both learn. everyone does, right?
Fabio hopes so. the idea hasn’t really sunk in yet. the idea of the responsbility. the weight. he hopes he won’t drown.
Zlatan has him easily pinned to the wall, when the forbidden word makes its unbidden appearance.
‘I don’t know what the fuck you mean, big boy.’
‘it’s ok, people mess up all the time.’
‘people do.’
‘yeah, and you’re not people.’ or so he’d say if Zlatan’s knuckle wasn’t rubbing his adam’s apple.
it’s just a game, and people get carded all the time, referees are crazy sons-of-bitches, fans forget the next time you kiss (the ball into that net) and make up, the money’s good. what else is new?
oh, right.
‘setting an example is overrated, big boy.’ Fabio allows Zlatan his little joke, with the nickname. it helps that he doesn’t actually feel much older than the striker. ‘you do what you do, you do it your way, and that’s really the best thing, in the long run, because there’s nothing as pathetic as a kid who does what everyone tells him to.’ Zlatan generalises smoothly, but the line of his mouth is a little rough.
another forkful disappears behind it. Fabio isn’t hungry, but watching other people eat isn’t ever fun. Zlatan flashes his teeth, vaguely wolflike, doesn’t even glance at the watch. they’re going to be late, and Fabio doesn’t care.
‘what was it like, growing up? what was Malmö like?’
he’s out of luck. Zlatan kicks him on the shin.
‘cold, you fucker. what d’you think?’
‘I think you’re an asshole.’ Zlatan kicks him again.
Zlatan should be a commentator someday, thinks Fabio. his blow-by-blow account of Milan-Lille is fifty times more entertaining than anything the RAI TV pros could come up with. and a little swearing and character defamation couldn’t hurt anyone, especially not everybody’s favourite Ricardo Kaká.
Fabio always forgets the funniest jokes, of course. besides, he’s pretty sure Zlatan isn’t supposed to choke on his own laughter before the punchline is revealed, but Fabio doesn’t mind.
he doesn’t even mind when Zlatan pokes his shoulder with his too-pointy chin and clutches at his upper arm in the throes of mirth.
Fabio’s picked up a smattering, or rather, a scattering of Swedish, but he’s unprepared for the tenderness with which Zlatan talks to Helena over the phone. he frowns a lot, his voice goes lower and lower. Fabio knows Zlatan isn’t in cocky, brilliant footballer mode all the time - few of them are, really, but he’s still surprised.
Zlatan doesn’t look at him for a few moments afterwards. Fabio feels guilty, then guilty for feeling guilty.
‘how’s Max doing?’ tries Fabio, thinking of his own Filippo, one inarticulate, fierce, helpless mass of feeling. his voice is a little too soft, but it’s too late to take it back.
‘fine. great. he’s doing great,’ says Zlatan, and exhales.
--
-----
wordcount: 810
rated: pg
characters: Fabio Grosso, Zlatan Ibrahimović
caring
it’s a disaster, no matter how much damage control Mancini will attempt in front of the press later. and they’re a major part of that disaster. so they’re read the riot act by their elders and betters. Fabio takes it like a man, mature and appropriately ashamed, still in his full kit. nodding along, aware of what behaviour like this might cost them (cost him).
Fabio catches himself mentally filing Hernán’s current expression away. that mixture of patience running into contempt, stern disappointment. Fabio has to conclude that he wouldn’t be pull it off, himself.
as for Zlatan - Zlatan tries. only it’s hard to pretend that you care when you don’t care but have a strange suspicion that you should.
Zlatan the other night: flushed and loutish, generous with the drinks, as triumphant as after a win. he’s got a paper napkin from somewhere, on which he misspells his baby son’s name thrice; ends up scrawling MAX in huge letters across Fabio’s arm.
‘I like the name,’ Fabio said. Zlatan, then, yelling over the pounding music, ‘WHAT?’ in huge letters across Fabio’s ear. Fabio yelling back, ‘I LIKE THE NAME.’ Laughing. Zlatan laughing back, ‘IT’S A FANTASTIC NAME, YOU ASS.’
Fabio pushing down the sleeve of his jacket, saved from the embarrassment of blurting out that it tickled by the arrival of someone else with congratulations.
the thing about Crespo. that’s the second time in as many days, by the way. the first time was in front of Marco, who sort of rolled his eyes or smiled, Fabio couldn’t figure out which. he also could not figure out whether it was supposed to mean, ‘you’re asking me?’ or ‘it’s just shit, it won’t kill you.’
Zlatan was unusually quiet then, across the room. lingering without actually breaking into the not-really-conversation. purposeless fingers on the bench. Fabio wanted to walk over and press his hand down on top of Zlatan’s. and say something reassuring, like, I’m scared, too. we’ll both learn. everyone does, right?
Fabio hopes so. the idea hasn’t really sunk in yet. the idea of the responsbility. the weight. he hopes he won’t drown.
Zlatan has him easily pinned to the wall, when the forbidden word makes its unbidden appearance.
‘I don’t know what the fuck you mean, big boy.’
‘it’s ok, people mess up all the time.’
‘people do.’
‘yeah, and you’re not people.’ or so he’d say if Zlatan’s knuckle wasn’t rubbing his adam’s apple.
it’s just a game, and people get carded all the time, referees are crazy sons-of-bitches, fans forget the next time you kiss (the ball into that net) and make up, the money’s good. what else is new?
oh, right.
‘setting an example is overrated, big boy.’ Fabio allows Zlatan his little joke, with the nickname. it helps that he doesn’t actually feel much older than the striker. ‘you do what you do, you do it your way, and that’s really the best thing, in the long run, because there’s nothing as pathetic as a kid who does what everyone tells him to.’ Zlatan generalises smoothly, but the line of his mouth is a little rough.
another forkful disappears behind it. Fabio isn’t hungry, but watching other people eat isn’t ever fun. Zlatan flashes his teeth, vaguely wolflike, doesn’t even glance at the watch. they’re going to be late, and Fabio doesn’t care.
‘what was it like, growing up? what was Malmö like?’
he’s out of luck. Zlatan kicks him on the shin.
‘cold, you fucker. what d’you think?’
‘I think you’re an asshole.’ Zlatan kicks him again.
Zlatan should be a commentator someday, thinks Fabio. his blow-by-blow account of Milan-Lille is fifty times more entertaining than anything the RAI TV pros could come up with. and a little swearing and character defamation couldn’t hurt anyone, especially not everybody’s favourite Ricardo Kaká.
Fabio always forgets the funniest jokes, of course. besides, he’s pretty sure Zlatan isn’t supposed to choke on his own laughter before the punchline is revealed, but Fabio doesn’t mind.
he doesn’t even mind when Zlatan pokes his shoulder with his too-pointy chin and clutches at his upper arm in the throes of mirth.
Fabio’s picked up a smattering, or rather, a scattering of Swedish, but he’s unprepared for the tenderness with which Zlatan talks to Helena over the phone. he frowns a lot, his voice goes lower and lower. Fabio knows Zlatan isn’t in cocky, brilliant footballer mode all the time - few of them are, really, but he’s still surprised.
Zlatan doesn’t look at him for a few moments afterwards. Fabio feels guilty, then guilty for feeling guilty.
‘how’s Max doing?’ tries Fabio, thinking of his own Filippo, one inarticulate, fierce, helpless mass of feeling. his voice is a little too soft, but it’s too late to take it back.
‘fine. great. he’s doing great,’ says Zlatan, and exhales.
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