lessons; on diction
Title: On Diction
Rating: G
Pairing: Ricardo Kakà/Yoann Gourcuff
“You’re too thin,” Kakà tells him one day, critically eyeing his wrists and the way the left one is jutting out at an irregular angle like it’s so wrong, too wrong, and the right one is just right, perfectly right, because it’s thin but pretty, and it makes sense (since it’s right).
He flushes, hesitant, says euh and um, but doesn’t know how to reply; the words he’s learned in Italian are escaping him and he can’t remember any French, until after several choking noises later when he settles on Si (what does that mean again?).
“And…you’re kind of sloppy,” Kakà continues slowly, now observing the way he’s fumbling with the hem of his carelessly untucked training shirt, his knuckles smooth but pale as he curls his fingers and twists the material: red and black and red and black and red (like his cheeks now, so red).
His pupils are wide and his mouth is open in a soft Oh, indignant but embarrassed, and he wants to object and apologize at the same time but still no proper words are formed; he silently curses himself for being such a mess and wonders why his heart is suddenly beating against his chest so viciously, the bats in his stomach too (because butterflies don’t even come close to describing it).
“Your shoelaces are untied, by the way,” Kakà points out, looking him up and down for other follies and decides to pick out the little things because he won’t learn otherwise, “you’ll trip. And your hair is rather messy-do you just comb through it with your fingers? And-” (he’s on a roll now, can’t stop if he will it).
“And what now?” Yoann finally says, caught between throwing his hands in the air and clenching them into fists because he’s absolutely exasperated-what more?-and so furious at the same time-at himself for being so utterly erroneous, at himself for wanting to either punch Kakà in the face or shove him against the goalpost and kiss him hard (just anything to shut him up).
“And…and-your eyes are too green!”
Oh.
Rating: G
Pairing: Ricardo Kakà/Yoann Gourcuff
“You’re too thin,” Kakà tells him one day, critically eyeing his wrists and the way the left one is jutting out at an irregular angle like it’s so wrong, too wrong, and the right one is just right, perfectly right, because it’s thin but pretty, and it makes sense (since it’s right).
He flushes, hesitant, says euh and um, but doesn’t know how to reply; the words he’s learned in Italian are escaping him and he can’t remember any French, until after several choking noises later when he settles on Si (what does that mean again?).
“And…you’re kind of sloppy,” Kakà continues slowly, now observing the way he’s fumbling with the hem of his carelessly untucked training shirt, his knuckles smooth but pale as he curls his fingers and twists the material: red and black and red and black and red (like his cheeks now, so red).
His pupils are wide and his mouth is open in a soft Oh, indignant but embarrassed, and he wants to object and apologize at the same time but still no proper words are formed; he silently curses himself for being such a mess and wonders why his heart is suddenly beating against his chest so viciously, the bats in his stomach too (because butterflies don’t even come close to describing it).
“Your shoelaces are untied, by the way,” Kakà points out, looking him up and down for other follies and decides to pick out the little things because he won’t learn otherwise, “you’ll trip. And your hair is rather messy-do you just comb through it with your fingers? And-” (he’s on a roll now, can’t stop if he will it).
“And what now?” Yoann finally says, caught between throwing his hands in the air and clenching them into fists because he’s absolutely exasperated-what more?-and so furious at the same time-at himself for being so utterly erroneous, at himself for wanting to either punch Kakà in the face or shove him against the goalpost and kiss him hard (just anything to shut him up).
“And…and-your eyes are too green!”
Oh.