lessons; on horizontal asymptotes
Title: On Horizontal Asymptotes (Vertical Lines)
Rating: R (though PG for the most part)
Pairing: Ricardo Kakà/Andriy Shevchenko
“Ciao.”
“Saluto.”
“Mi...mi chi-…mi chiamo-”
“Kakà.”
“Ricardo, si.”
“Shevchenko.”
Welcome to Milan. You have pretty hair, I kind of like you. Please call me
“Sheva!”
And then he’s on his back-oof!-eyes close, eyes open; he sees blue skies and pink lips, curved and soft and kissable, and blinks a few times when Ricky’s concerned figure is shoved from his vision as an apologetic, rough-as-always Gattuso rushes over (“Spiacente!”) and the cool capitano says, “Where is your mind, Andriy?”
He’s pulled to his feet, grasping Ricky’s boyish hands a little longer than necessary, a little tighter than necessary, and when the younger man finally pulls away after an affirming, brilliant smile, he thinks, what is necessity? When the lines are drawn and he gets real close, too close to the limit and
It is incredible when he knows, when they know as their foreheads press against each other and I only have eyes for you even though they are in front of the world; shameless, he thinks, and they grin, because proximity knows no shame and proximity defeats the limit and lines are almost crossed, would have been crossed but the whistle blows,
“Oooooohhhh!” and he moans fuck reeekeee! when the cool air grazes his hot skin and he is almost goosebumps-infected, there writhing on the sheets with his lover between his legs and those boyish hands cleverly spreading his thighs. Then he knows he is approaching, approaching the limit-from the left? from the right? to infinity-approaching now, here he comes reeekeee! who believes, says I believe (in you), says
“Do you believe in anything?” Ricky leans into him, lays his head on the heart, presses his fingers into the hips and Andriy only stares up, as if through to the heavens where he wants to be, needs to be (there goes necessity again, he almost muses), and rejects, frowns, stays close but cold.
“Why go there?”
Ricky stiffens, holds his breath, whispers, “What?”
“This doesn’t have to be deep. This doesn’t have to mean anything more than what it is.”
“What…is it?”
And then they are disentangled, disconnected, dis-
“Content at Chelsea,” he assures the world with sad eyes and a loose smile, “I am. I am…happy to be here. I believe…”
Clichés are limits, don’t get attached
don’t get real close, too close
“Come close, Andriy.”
“But don’t touch-”
“That’s right.”
“-can’t touch-”
“That’s right.”
“We-”
are infinite (right)
Rating: R (though PG for the most part)
Pairing: Ricardo Kakà/Andriy Shevchenko
“Ciao.”
“Saluto.”
“Mi...mi chi-…mi chiamo-”
“Kakà.”
“Ricardo, si.”
“Shevchenko.”
Welcome to Milan. You have pretty hair, I kind of like you. Please call me
“Sheva!”
And then he’s on his back-oof!-eyes close, eyes open; he sees blue skies and pink lips, curved and soft and kissable, and blinks a few times when Ricky’s concerned figure is shoved from his vision as an apologetic, rough-as-always Gattuso rushes over (“Spiacente!”) and the cool capitano says, “Where is your mind, Andriy?”
He’s pulled to his feet, grasping Ricky’s boyish hands a little longer than necessary, a little tighter than necessary, and when the younger man finally pulls away after an affirming, brilliant smile, he thinks, what is necessity? When the lines are drawn and he gets real close, too close to the limit and
It is incredible when he knows, when they know as their foreheads press against each other and I only have eyes for you even though they are in front of the world; shameless, he thinks, and they grin, because proximity knows no shame and proximity defeats the limit and lines are almost crossed, would have been crossed but the whistle blows,
“Oooooohhhh!” and he moans fuck reeekeee! when the cool air grazes his hot skin and he is almost goosebumps-infected, there writhing on the sheets with his lover between his legs and those boyish hands cleverly spreading his thighs. Then he knows he is approaching, approaching the limit-from the left? from the right? to infinity-approaching now, here he comes reeekeee! who believes, says I believe (in you), says
“Do you believe in anything?” Ricky leans into him, lays his head on the heart, presses his fingers into the hips and Andriy only stares up, as if through to the heavens where he wants to be, needs to be (there goes necessity again, he almost muses), and rejects, frowns, stays close but cold.
“Why go there?”
Ricky stiffens, holds his breath, whispers, “What?”
“This doesn’t have to be deep. This doesn’t have to mean anything more than what it is.”
“What…is it?”
And then they are disentangled, disconnected, dis-
“Content at Chelsea,” he assures the world with sad eyes and a loose smile, “I am. I am…happy to be here. I believe…”
Clichés are limits, don’t get attached
don’t get real close, too close
“Come close, Andriy.”
“But don’t touch-”
“That’s right.”
“-can’t touch-”
“That’s right.”
“We-”
are infinite (right)