lessons; on history
Title: On History
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Ricardo Kakà/Andriy Shevchenko
“Papa,” Jordan says, “what is ‘histhirty’?”
Andriy furrows his brows. “His-thirty?” he repeats, ego starting to feel the stings of uncertainty.
It’s bad enough that his English hasn’t got on too well despite the amount of time and effort that he’s put into it, but it’s a whole other matter of pride when he can’t even explain a simple word-whatever it is-to his son.
“Well,” Andriy says, “His thirty is…is like when your Papa celebrates his thirtieth birthday…”
‘Saluto?’
‘Felice compleanno, Andriy,’ you hear, your heart beating louder with every soft syllable he speaks.
‘Ricky?’
‘Ciao.’ The line clicks but your heart doesn’t stop its course in the race.
“…or like…like when your Papa scores his thirtieth goal in a season…”
He kisses you, a hand on the small of your back and another touching your cheek.
‘Complimenti!’ he smiles, then whispers in your ear: ‘It was beautiful.’
‘You are beautiful,’ you gasp, pressing tightly against him. ‘Ricky…want you now.’
“…or like…like…”
…the number of ways you have made love, on his back, on your side, in the showers, against the wall, his fingers digging into your skin.
…the number of days in a month when you have missed him so much, so much that you think about giving everything up just to be with him.
…the number of times when you have realized that it is over, that he is the past and you have no future.
“Papa? Papa-!”
“Ah-si, caro?”
“Papa, ‘histhirty’,” Jordan insists, pointing down at a flyer on the tabletop.
“‘History’,” Andriy reads. “Ah, well, that’s a bit different. History is…is like your crayons-sort of. You see, history is the red and black ones, you've used these well, see? The present…is the blues, they're newer...sharpened. And the future…”
“Yes, Papa?”
Andriy pauses. His hesitance isn’t a issue of dignity anymore.
But how to tell his son that he has no color for the void in his heart?
“Cucciolino, the future is you.”
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Ricardo Kakà/Andriy Shevchenko
“Papa,” Jordan says, “what is ‘histhirty’?”
Andriy furrows his brows. “His-thirty?” he repeats, ego starting to feel the stings of uncertainty.
It’s bad enough that his English hasn’t got on too well despite the amount of time and effort that he’s put into it, but it’s a whole other matter of pride when he can’t even explain a simple word-whatever it is-to his son.
“Well,” Andriy says, “His thirty is…is like when your Papa celebrates his thirtieth birthday…”
‘Saluto?’
‘Felice compleanno, Andriy,’ you hear, your heart beating louder with every soft syllable he speaks.
‘Ricky?’
‘Ciao.’ The line clicks but your heart doesn’t stop its course in the race.
“…or like…like when your Papa scores his thirtieth goal in a season…”
He kisses you, a hand on the small of your back and another touching your cheek.
‘Complimenti!’ he smiles, then whispers in your ear: ‘It was beautiful.’
‘You are beautiful,’ you gasp, pressing tightly against him. ‘Ricky…want you now.’
“…or like…like…”
…the number of ways you have made love, on his back, on your side, in the showers, against the wall, his fingers digging into your skin.
…the number of days in a month when you have missed him so much, so much that you think about giving everything up just to be with him.
…the number of times when you have realized that it is over, that he is the past and you have no future.
“Papa? Papa-!”
“Ah-si, caro?”
“Papa, ‘histhirty’,” Jordan insists, pointing down at a flyer on the tabletop.
“‘History’,” Andriy reads. “Ah, well, that’s a bit different. History is…is like your crayons-sort of. You see, history is the red and black ones, you've used these well, see? The present…is the blues, they're newer...sharpened. And the future…”
“Yes, Papa?”
Andriy pauses. His hesitance isn’t a issue of dignity anymore.
But how to tell his son that he has no color for the void in his heart?
“Cucciolino, the future is you.”