barista
Title: Barista
Rating: R
Pairing: Ricardo Kakà/Andriy Shevchenko
Disclaimer: Fiction.
Summary: AU-Andriy is a bartender who knows better than to get involved and Ricky is a boy who needs that involvement.
The ability to read people is something that comes with working in his industry-‘industry,’ he says, if only to give it some dignity, but the truth is, there is nothing respectable about watching drunk men waste away in front of him and knowing that he is, at least in part, responsible for it. Knowing, however, is different from feeling, and he knows better than to feel. He pities them, he serves them, but that is as far as indulgences go; he listens, he learns, but he does not get involved.
It is a very good policy and, paired with his ability, it means that he is more privileged than these men with their gold watches and generous tips-when they’re tipsy or a little more and suddenly he’s their best friend, their confidant. He is polite-oh, but he has to be in this industry and there’s that word again-even charming when it’s called for, but he is guarded, hidden beneath an apron, which he knows will come off by the end of the night.
This is the world of Andriy (Mykolayovych) Shevchenko; it is the only one he has ever known and he never thinks to question it. Frankly, he simply hasn’t a reason to: the faces are familiar and the stories hardly vary.
And then there is the face that becomes closer than any and the story that changes his world forever.
The boy can’t have been more than eighteen, but the look in his eyes tells Andriy that his troubles may have been years beyond him and that’s, to say the least, a little disturbing to even one as withdrawn as Andriy believes himself to be. And withdrawn he tries to maintain, glancing at the boy at the far end from a distance and out of the corner of his eye while serving his regular patrons-Signor Gattuso is once again questioning the loyalty of his wife Monica and Signor Oddo interrupts with tales of how his Claudia is ceaselessly mischievous and keeps him on his toes (‘Eye on the fortune, that one,’ slurs Signor Bonera). Normally, Andriy humors them-and in his way, that means a smile and a nod-but tonight…tonight there is a boy several seats down without a drink in his hands; they are, instead, folded, and his gaze is cast somewhere farer away than Andriy could’ve known.
Andriy quietly excuses himself from the men.
Then-‘Anything I can get you?’
The boy slowly lifts his lashes and looks up at him with the saddest eyes that Andriy’s ever seen. He offers a little smile and then a shake of his head.
‘No…no, thank you. I-I don’t drink.’
Andriy frowns. ‘Then I think you’re in the wrong place, kid,’ he says shortly, feeling an unprecedented twinge somewhere in his chest area when the boy flushes and bites his lip.
‘I…I just wanted a place t-to think,’ he says softly. ‘I didn’t-’
Rowdy laughter from the other side of the room (‘An’ she-she says, per scherzo!’ howls Signor Oddo) interrupts the boy then and Andriy simply raises an eyebrow as if to prove a point.
‘Well, I don’t mind,’ he finally says, ‘but if the boss comes around…’
‘I won’t make any trouble for you,’ the boy assures smartly.
Andriy looks on a little longer than necessary then-new kid, he tells himself, and an odd one too…dark, messy hair…those eyes…lips, red and slightly dented now…-nods and turns away, feeling that twinge again.
‘Signor Pirlo? Signore…’
It’s a part of his close-up routine: wake up the one patron who’s always knocked out before the rest and clear the room, which he does as usual; these men are regulars and they know when it’s time to return to their lives. Andriy scans the area…even the slower Signor Seedorf is being helped up by his lady companion (one of the few in this unofficial-but-widely-acknowledged-as gentlemen-only bar) and the only other person left is…the boy at the far end, apparently still lost in his own thoughts.
Andriy bows his head slightly as Signor Seedorf leaves and then hesitates before clearing his throat. The boy looks up, startled, and Andriy mentally curses himself.
‘We’re closing,’ he says, gesturing to the empty room.
The boy fiddles with the ring on his finger for a moment before-as if accepting defeat-he nods and stands up, stretching (he’s taller than Andriy thinks). He digs in a back pocket and pulls out a lavish banknote, which he places on the counter and then heads for the door. Andriy stares down at it, confused, before he calls after the boy.
‘Ehi! You…you didn’t buy anything.’
The boy shifts the handle and leans against the door to prop it open, but he turns around to look at Andriy with those eyes again.
‘Thank you for your time,’ he says and disappears as the door snaps back into its place.
Andriy picks up the note and slips it into his pocket-unlike the rest of the pay and tips, he feels that it doesn’t need to be accounted for.
He finishes cleaning up where he needs to and leaves the rest to their respective jobholder. He retires his apron and straightens up, saying goodnight to a person or two, and heads out the door-where he finds the boy sitting outside against the stone wall, his eyes closed and his head tipped back. Andriy doesn’t know what compels him to do it, but suddenly he’s stepped back inside the bar, and when he returns, it’s with a beer in each hand.
‘Here,’ he says, holding one of them out to the boy, who opens his eyes too quickly and allows his cheeks to redden again.
‘I…I still don’t drink,’ he mutters.
Andriy joins him on the ground, every action surprising himself more than anybody-and yet he makes them anyway, and pushes the bottle into the boy’s cool hands.
‘Assuming you’re legal,’ he says dryly, ‘drink it-it’ll do you good right about now. And it’s on me. Well, actually, I paid for it with the note you left, so all the more reason to get your money’s worth.’ He finishes by opening his own beer and taking a swig.
The boy doesn’t say anything; he only stares at the bottle in his hands and for a moment Andriy is worried that he’s being much too bold-certainly more forward than he’s ever been with any other person, let alone customer (and this boy technically isn’t even one)-but then he too opens the bottle and takes a tentative sip. He must’ve liked it, Andriy decides, because the boy has already tipped his bottle up for more.
‘I am legal,’ he says suddenly, and his cheeks are brighter when Andriy turns to face him. ‘I mean, I’m an adult. I’m…I’m eighteen.’
Andriy swallows and diverts his stare. Eighteen, he thinks. Absolutely too young to have that look in your eyes.
‘What’s your name, kid?’
‘Ricky,’ the boy replies softly. ‘My name is Ricky…You-’ And then he stops.
‘What?’ Andriy prompts.
‘Nothing,’ Ricky says quickly. ‘It’s just…you don’t look too old yourself.’
‘So?’
‘So…you call me kid like you’re ages older.’
‘I am older,’ Andriy says, feeling annoyed. ‘And I know far more than you could imagine, so I think I have a right to call you kid if I want to.’
Ricky doesn’t say anything then and Andriy almost feels bad-not that he knows what it particularly feels like, but the twinge in his chest area has returned and he suspects that it’s not because of the beer because neither of them have had more than those first couple of sips.
‘Andriy,’ he says and it’s Ricky’s turn to face him. ‘My name is Andriy.’
Ricky nods but remains silent and the only sounds around them then are those of distant footsteps around the corner and across the street and the occasional slosh of another swig. Andriy feels more annoyed now, impatient, and he just can’t read this boy like he’s able to with the rest of them. He thinks maybe this is why he often doesn’t get involved: he gets nothing in return anyway, there is only awkwardness and matters that simply aren’t worth his time. He is ready to make an excuse to leave when the boy-Ricky-speaks.
‘Since you know far more than I could imagine then,’ he starts with a smile that Andriy can’t understand, ‘will you tell me what it’s like…what it’s like to be in love?’
Andriy almost laughs. This is the trouble of an eighteen year old? How typical. He imbibes a little more of his beer before replying.
‘Well, kid, that’s…that’s a very good question,’ he says, realizing at that moment that he doesn’t know the answer. ‘I’m sure…somebody else can enlighten you; unfortunately, that somebody isn’t-’
‘You don’t know,’ Ricky laughs as he too takes a swill. ‘Mm…you don’t know and you can’t tell me.’
Andriy feels indignant-too indignant to reply, he thinks-and he’s really ready to leave now, but the boy’s started again.
‘She’s perfect,’ he says after another sip. ‘Beautiful…intelligent…religious…and rich. They say it’s a match made in heaven.’
The inexplicable twinge is back, but Andriy no longer feels a desire to leave. ‘Congratulations,’ he says sarcastically. ‘It must be so awful to be you. Boy. Whatever will you do?’
Ricky is flushed red again and Andriy’s words seem to have made his hands shake. ‘That’s just it,’ he says exceptionally matter-of-factly, downing more of his beer with a slight cough. ‘I don’t know what to do. It’s…it’s a match. They made it.’
This time, Andriy does laugh and now Ricky’s annoyed. He consumes more of the intoxicant and lolls his head back against the wall, shoulder and knee brushing Andriy’s.
‘You’re rich, young, and…good-looking,’ Andriy says, his cheeks warming up now too-it’s the alcohol, he thinks. ‘A set-up by your parents or whoever should be the least of your problems-if any. You’re eighteen…and already exactly like those men in there. Day in and day out…people like you disgust me.’
Ricky laughs and finishes off his bottle. ‘I disgust myself,’ he says to Andriy’s surprise. ‘I got the perfect girl waiting for me to marry her and I…I’m not attracted to her at all.’ His words have begun to slur and Andriy thinks he really meant it when he said he doesn’t drink-a bottle of beer and he can’t hold his liquor? ‘I’m not attracted to any of the girls that my parents’ve tried before…I’m a sick man, Andriy, like you wouldn’t know…couldn’t know. But God…God knows. God always knows. God…’
He reaches across them and takes Andriy’s bottle to have at it too-Andriy lets him because it’s the only thing he can do; he stares at the boy and the feeling in his chest is stronger than ever (his heart is beating quite loudly; Ricky’s head has dropped to his shoulder now, on his shoulder-too close, really close, breathe in, breathe out). This is much more involved than he had ever imagine and it’s too much…too much and he doesn’t even know the boy, doesn’t know what’s making him sit on the street in the dark with him, doesn’t know what’s making him panicky, but he thinks he’s panicking and it’s not a good feeling (he’s never felt it before!) and this is crazy and this is not Andriy (Mykolayovych) Shevchenko and this is not what he knows and breathe in, breathe out-
‘Ricky?’
Goddamnit, the boy’s knocked out.
Rich…eighteen-year-old…brats…are heavy, Andriy thinks, dragging the boy into his apartment. His breath is short and labored but he feels oddly accomplished, looking down at the unconscious form now draped across his couch. With a deep sigh and a hand running through his own hair, Andriy feels too exhausted for his shower so, instead, he unbuttons his shirt and loosens his belt and falls into the nearest seat he can find.
It seems as though it has only been a few minutes since he closed his eyes but when Andriy jerks from his sleep by a moan, he sees that it has already been an hour since coming home. He rubs the sleep away with the palms of his hands and gets up to hover on the side of the couch. Ricky seems insensate still, his eyes closed, long lashes meeting the soft skin under his eyes…cheeks feverish and high…lips red, slightly parted…dark, messy hair sticking to his forehead…
Andriy almost turns away when his heart begins overworking again-but he doesn’t. He finds himself sitting down in the space left by Ricky’s narrow hips and leaning over the boy, his own rough fingers tracing the colors on that otherwise pale face, which seems to be getting closer…and closer…and…
Another soft moan and Ricky opens his eyes to see Andriy’s lips a mere breath away from his own. The older man is stunned, embarrassed, and he moves as if to escape, but Ricky’s already reached his hand around the back of Andriy’s neck, boyish fingers in his scruffy blond hair, to take that breath away, close the distance between them, and crush lips against lips-then tongue against tongue.
Andriy’s shirt comes off easily and Ricky's doesn’t quite, but they remove it within seconds anyway and there’s skin on skin and hands and lips and it’s harder to breathe than ever now.
‘Bed, please,’ somebody says, and neither are sure who it is, but it doesn’t matter because they both realize that the couch isn’t the place they want to be, and so it’s up and stumble and Andriy leads the way (in more than one way) and they’ve collapsed on the bed. Belts are undone and jeans are pushed off and there’s skin on skin and hands and lips and it’s now or never and the latter isn’t really an option at this point.
So it’s now and they are now and now means Andriy’s hands frantically working both their cocks and Ricky’s hands moving up and down his lover’s back and down and down and down until their hips are pressed tightly and it’s tight! Andriy gasps.
Andriy wakes to find Ricky tucked into his side and they are entangled with arms and legs and sheets and there’s still skin on skin and hands (but no lips-yet?) and he’s still asleep, breathing gently and looking so terribly young, impossibly naïve, but finally worry-free and that’s the way he should be (eighteen!). It almost hurts to look down at him then-almost, because one has to feel to hurt and Andriy doesn’t…he doesn’t do that.
He moves to free himself from the other warm body when the creaks of the bed make Ricky stirs and he opens his eyes-finds Andriy’s-and smiles. The soft, contented sigh and whisper of good morning make his lighter skin prickle with goosebumps.
‘Listen, kid,’ Andriy says, knowing that this is far too much for him to deal with, ‘about last night-’
‘I know,’ Ricky gently interrupts, ‘I know. I didn’t think anybody would understand either, but you…Andriy, you’re…well, you know, and God-God knows, but we-’
‘There is no we,’ Andriy says firmly, taking advantage of the boy’s visibly vulnerable state with his words to disentangle now. ‘There’s no God in this and there’s no we at all and last night-’ he shrugs, ‘-I…you shouldn’t be here right now.’
The loudest silence that he has ever heard comes between them, the little space that separates chest from chest and hips from hips and he looks at everything else in the room before the boy speaks again.
‘Andriy, I…’
The affection in the way Ricky says his name puts the twinge back into his chest and Andriy wishes that he has a better word for it, but everything else sounds so dramatic in his head-too dramatic-and there just isn’t room for drama in his life and this is unnecessarily becoming exactly that.
‘That’s not me last night, okay?’ he says quickly. ‘And that’s not you either. Look, I know boys like you; I see you every day. You’re rich and young and you’re having your fun and the idea of settling down scares you now, but…you get over it. You don’t remember a guy like me, and a guy like me…I don’t get involved, kid, ‘cause you know what? I know. I know and-’
‘And what do you know?’ Ricky has raised his voice and he has backed off on the bed, increasing the space between them, and Andriy thinks that it’s a subconscious action but it still contributes to the…he still can’t find the appropriate word for it. ‘You don’t know anything.’
‘You don’t know anything,’ Andriy says angrily. He points an accusing finger at the boy and continues, ‘Look at you. You spend one night with me and you think you understand, you think you’re…you think you’re in love! You think God and you think we, but you don’t even know me!’
‘I’ll tell you what I know,’ Ricky replies fiercely, looking him straight in the eyes. ‘You stand there behind your bar day in and day out and you think you know life because you’ve seen it in those men and you think you’ve lived it through them or that you’re too good to live it because you know better than to but you don’t know shit, Andriy. You can’t know; you’re so guarded that you don’t allow yourself to feel at all and knowing is feeling and you don’t know if you don’t feel!’
‘Shut up!’ Andriy yells, staggering off the bed now.
‘I felt you last night,’ Ricky whispers, slipping from the bed as well, ‘and that’s how I know…you felt something too, didn’t you, Andriy? Or did you really not, because then it’s not I who don’t know you, Andriy; you don’t know me…and you don’t know nearly as much as you think you do.’
Andriy closes his eyes for a moment and then takes a breath. ‘Get out,’ he manages to say as he turns to disappear behind the bathroom door. ‘I want you out of here.’
He slams the door shut and presses his back against it, breathing erratically and burying his head into his hands. For first time in his life then-or as far as he can remember-Andriy thinks, God.
‘Did you know, Andriy? Bosco’s son got married today!’
Andriy looks up from the tap and frowns at Signor Ancelotti in confusion. ‘Who…?’
‘Bosco Izecson Pereira Leite! Oh, you remember him; used to come in here with his boys once in awhile, their father-sons bonding time and all…’
Andriy shakes his head but offers a polite smile anyway. That doesn’t suffice it for Signor Ancelotti, however, who takes a large swill in exasperation and then shoves the morning paper before Andriy. ‘See? The oldest boy, Ricardo…what a great kid, talented, surely the next big name around here…and the lucky girl too! Pretty little thing, Miss Caroline, is it? Perfect match, absolutely perfect, great things to come from them, I’ll bet you…’
Andriy stares at the headlines and the pictures and the stitch in his heart that has been there for weeks now seems to throb the moment he recognizes the face and the story. He swallows the lump that’s formed in his throat, however, ignores whatever that is in his chest, and pushes the paper back.
‘I didn’t know.’
‘Signor Pirlo? Signore…’
The routine doesn’t change and Andriy crouches down to wipe clean a spill that happened earlier that night. He hears the door swing open and a stool scratch across the floor as it’s pulled out and he straightens up to tell whoever it is that they’ve closed to business now and he’s only started Ehi-! when he sees that boy at the far end again.
‘What are you doing here?’ Andriy says after a silence.
The boy shrugs. ‘Well, I don’t drink, but…’
Andriy shakes his head. ‘Isn’t today the big day? Why…aren’t you home with your wife?’
‘I didn’t marry her,’ the boy explains calmly.
‘…She’s perfect.’
‘I guess I’m just not attracted to perfect then.’
‘Why are you here, Ricky?’ Andriy sighs and puts down the cleaning rag.
‘I…had a talk with God. And He says…He says that He’d forgive me if I come.’
Andriy almost smiles. ‘Did He really?’
‘No,’ Ricky replies, a genuine grin on his boyish face; dark, messy hair sticking to his forehead and his eyes are bright, his lips still red. ‘But I’m willing to find out.’
Andriy shakes his head again and then looks at the boy for a long time before removing his apron.
‘We don’t even know each other,’ he says softly.
‘…But I’m willing to find out.’
And this becomes the world of Andriy (Mykolayovych) Shevchenko; it is the only one he ever wants to know and he never thinks to question it. Frankly, he simply hasn’t a reason to: there’s the face and there’s their story.
Rating: R
Pairing: Ricardo Kakà/Andriy Shevchenko
Disclaimer: Fiction.
Summary: AU-Andriy is a bartender who knows better than to get involved and Ricky is a boy who needs that involvement.
The ability to read people is something that comes with working in his industry-‘industry,’ he says, if only to give it some dignity, but the truth is, there is nothing respectable about watching drunk men waste away in front of him and knowing that he is, at least in part, responsible for it. Knowing, however, is different from feeling, and he knows better than to feel. He pities them, he serves them, but that is as far as indulgences go; he listens, he learns, but he does not get involved.
It is a very good policy and, paired with his ability, it means that he is more privileged than these men with their gold watches and generous tips-when they’re tipsy or a little more and suddenly he’s their best friend, their confidant. He is polite-oh, but he has to be in this industry and there’s that word again-even charming when it’s called for, but he is guarded, hidden beneath an apron, which he knows will come off by the end of the night.
This is the world of Andriy (Mykolayovych) Shevchenko; it is the only one he has ever known and he never thinks to question it. Frankly, he simply hasn’t a reason to: the faces are familiar and the stories hardly vary.
And then there is the face that becomes closer than any and the story that changes his world forever.
The boy can’t have been more than eighteen, but the look in his eyes tells Andriy that his troubles may have been years beyond him and that’s, to say the least, a little disturbing to even one as withdrawn as Andriy believes himself to be. And withdrawn he tries to maintain, glancing at the boy at the far end from a distance and out of the corner of his eye while serving his regular patrons-Signor Gattuso is once again questioning the loyalty of his wife Monica and Signor Oddo interrupts with tales of how his Claudia is ceaselessly mischievous and keeps him on his toes (‘Eye on the fortune, that one,’ slurs Signor Bonera). Normally, Andriy humors them-and in his way, that means a smile and a nod-but tonight…tonight there is a boy several seats down without a drink in his hands; they are, instead, folded, and his gaze is cast somewhere farer away than Andriy could’ve known.
Andriy quietly excuses himself from the men.
Then-‘Anything I can get you?’
The boy slowly lifts his lashes and looks up at him with the saddest eyes that Andriy’s ever seen. He offers a little smile and then a shake of his head.
‘No…no, thank you. I-I don’t drink.’
Andriy frowns. ‘Then I think you’re in the wrong place, kid,’ he says shortly, feeling an unprecedented twinge somewhere in his chest area when the boy flushes and bites his lip.
‘I…I just wanted a place t-to think,’ he says softly. ‘I didn’t-’
Rowdy laughter from the other side of the room (‘An’ she-she says, per scherzo!’ howls Signor Oddo) interrupts the boy then and Andriy simply raises an eyebrow as if to prove a point.
‘Well, I don’t mind,’ he finally says, ‘but if the boss comes around…’
‘I won’t make any trouble for you,’ the boy assures smartly.
Andriy looks on a little longer than necessary then-new kid, he tells himself, and an odd one too…dark, messy hair…those eyes…lips, red and slightly dented now…-nods and turns away, feeling that twinge again.
‘Signor Pirlo? Signore…’
It’s a part of his close-up routine: wake up the one patron who’s always knocked out before the rest and clear the room, which he does as usual; these men are regulars and they know when it’s time to return to their lives. Andriy scans the area…even the slower Signor Seedorf is being helped up by his lady companion (one of the few in this unofficial-but-widely-acknowledged-as gentlemen-only bar) and the only other person left is…the boy at the far end, apparently still lost in his own thoughts.
Andriy bows his head slightly as Signor Seedorf leaves and then hesitates before clearing his throat. The boy looks up, startled, and Andriy mentally curses himself.
‘We’re closing,’ he says, gesturing to the empty room.
The boy fiddles with the ring on his finger for a moment before-as if accepting defeat-he nods and stands up, stretching (he’s taller than Andriy thinks). He digs in a back pocket and pulls out a lavish banknote, which he places on the counter and then heads for the door. Andriy stares down at it, confused, before he calls after the boy.
‘Ehi! You…you didn’t buy anything.’
The boy shifts the handle and leans against the door to prop it open, but he turns around to look at Andriy with those eyes again.
‘Thank you for your time,’ he says and disappears as the door snaps back into its place.
Andriy picks up the note and slips it into his pocket-unlike the rest of the pay and tips, he feels that it doesn’t need to be accounted for.
He finishes cleaning up where he needs to and leaves the rest to their respective jobholder. He retires his apron and straightens up, saying goodnight to a person or two, and heads out the door-where he finds the boy sitting outside against the stone wall, his eyes closed and his head tipped back. Andriy doesn’t know what compels him to do it, but suddenly he’s stepped back inside the bar, and when he returns, it’s with a beer in each hand.
‘Here,’ he says, holding one of them out to the boy, who opens his eyes too quickly and allows his cheeks to redden again.
‘I…I still don’t drink,’ he mutters.
Andriy joins him on the ground, every action surprising himself more than anybody-and yet he makes them anyway, and pushes the bottle into the boy’s cool hands.
‘Assuming you’re legal,’ he says dryly, ‘drink it-it’ll do you good right about now. And it’s on me. Well, actually, I paid for it with the note you left, so all the more reason to get your money’s worth.’ He finishes by opening his own beer and taking a swig.
The boy doesn’t say anything; he only stares at the bottle in his hands and for a moment Andriy is worried that he’s being much too bold-certainly more forward than he’s ever been with any other person, let alone customer (and this boy technically isn’t even one)-but then he too opens the bottle and takes a tentative sip. He must’ve liked it, Andriy decides, because the boy has already tipped his bottle up for more.
‘I am legal,’ he says suddenly, and his cheeks are brighter when Andriy turns to face him. ‘I mean, I’m an adult. I’m…I’m eighteen.’
Andriy swallows and diverts his stare. Eighteen, he thinks. Absolutely too young to have that look in your eyes.
‘What’s your name, kid?’
‘Ricky,’ the boy replies softly. ‘My name is Ricky…You-’ And then he stops.
‘What?’ Andriy prompts.
‘Nothing,’ Ricky says quickly. ‘It’s just…you don’t look too old yourself.’
‘So?’
‘So…you call me kid like you’re ages older.’
‘I am older,’ Andriy says, feeling annoyed. ‘And I know far more than you could imagine, so I think I have a right to call you kid if I want to.’
Ricky doesn’t say anything then and Andriy almost feels bad-not that he knows what it particularly feels like, but the twinge in his chest area has returned and he suspects that it’s not because of the beer because neither of them have had more than those first couple of sips.
‘Andriy,’ he says and it’s Ricky’s turn to face him. ‘My name is Andriy.’
Ricky nods but remains silent and the only sounds around them then are those of distant footsteps around the corner and across the street and the occasional slosh of another swig. Andriy feels more annoyed now, impatient, and he just can’t read this boy like he’s able to with the rest of them. He thinks maybe this is why he often doesn’t get involved: he gets nothing in return anyway, there is only awkwardness and matters that simply aren’t worth his time. He is ready to make an excuse to leave when the boy-Ricky-speaks.
‘Since you know far more than I could imagine then,’ he starts with a smile that Andriy can’t understand, ‘will you tell me what it’s like…what it’s like to be in love?’
Andriy almost laughs. This is the trouble of an eighteen year old? How typical. He imbibes a little more of his beer before replying.
‘Well, kid, that’s…that’s a very good question,’ he says, realizing at that moment that he doesn’t know the answer. ‘I’m sure…somebody else can enlighten you; unfortunately, that somebody isn’t-’
‘You don’t know,’ Ricky laughs as he too takes a swill. ‘Mm…you don’t know and you can’t tell me.’
Andriy feels indignant-too indignant to reply, he thinks-and he’s really ready to leave now, but the boy’s started again.
‘She’s perfect,’ he says after another sip. ‘Beautiful…intelligent…religious…and rich. They say it’s a match made in heaven.’
The inexplicable twinge is back, but Andriy no longer feels a desire to leave. ‘Congratulations,’ he says sarcastically. ‘It must be so awful to be you. Boy. Whatever will you do?’
Ricky is flushed red again and Andriy’s words seem to have made his hands shake. ‘That’s just it,’ he says exceptionally matter-of-factly, downing more of his beer with a slight cough. ‘I don’t know what to do. It’s…it’s a match. They made it.’
This time, Andriy does laugh and now Ricky’s annoyed. He consumes more of the intoxicant and lolls his head back against the wall, shoulder and knee brushing Andriy’s.
‘You’re rich, young, and…good-looking,’ Andriy says, his cheeks warming up now too-it’s the alcohol, he thinks. ‘A set-up by your parents or whoever should be the least of your problems-if any. You’re eighteen…and already exactly like those men in there. Day in and day out…people like you disgust me.’
Ricky laughs and finishes off his bottle. ‘I disgust myself,’ he says to Andriy’s surprise. ‘I got the perfect girl waiting for me to marry her and I…I’m not attracted to her at all.’ His words have begun to slur and Andriy thinks he really meant it when he said he doesn’t drink-a bottle of beer and he can’t hold his liquor? ‘I’m not attracted to any of the girls that my parents’ve tried before…I’m a sick man, Andriy, like you wouldn’t know…couldn’t know. But God…God knows. God always knows. God…’
He reaches across them and takes Andriy’s bottle to have at it too-Andriy lets him because it’s the only thing he can do; he stares at the boy and the feeling in his chest is stronger than ever (his heart is beating quite loudly; Ricky’s head has dropped to his shoulder now, on his shoulder-too close, really close, breathe in, breathe out). This is much more involved than he had ever imagine and it’s too much…too much and he doesn’t even know the boy, doesn’t know what’s making him sit on the street in the dark with him, doesn’t know what’s making him panicky, but he thinks he’s panicking and it’s not a good feeling (he’s never felt it before!) and this is crazy and this is not Andriy (Mykolayovych) Shevchenko and this is not what he knows and breathe in, breathe out-
‘Ricky?’
Goddamnit, the boy’s knocked out.
Rich…eighteen-year-old…brats…are heavy, Andriy thinks, dragging the boy into his apartment. His breath is short and labored but he feels oddly accomplished, looking down at the unconscious form now draped across his couch. With a deep sigh and a hand running through his own hair, Andriy feels too exhausted for his shower so, instead, he unbuttons his shirt and loosens his belt and falls into the nearest seat he can find.
It seems as though it has only been a few minutes since he closed his eyes but when Andriy jerks from his sleep by a moan, he sees that it has already been an hour since coming home. He rubs the sleep away with the palms of his hands and gets up to hover on the side of the couch. Ricky seems insensate still, his eyes closed, long lashes meeting the soft skin under his eyes…cheeks feverish and high…lips red, slightly parted…dark, messy hair sticking to his forehead…
Andriy almost turns away when his heart begins overworking again-but he doesn’t. He finds himself sitting down in the space left by Ricky’s narrow hips and leaning over the boy, his own rough fingers tracing the colors on that otherwise pale face, which seems to be getting closer…and closer…and…
Another soft moan and Ricky opens his eyes to see Andriy’s lips a mere breath away from his own. The older man is stunned, embarrassed, and he moves as if to escape, but Ricky’s already reached his hand around the back of Andriy’s neck, boyish fingers in his scruffy blond hair, to take that breath away, close the distance between them, and crush lips against lips-then tongue against tongue.
Andriy’s shirt comes off easily and Ricky's doesn’t quite, but they remove it within seconds anyway and there’s skin on skin and hands and lips and it’s harder to breathe than ever now.
‘Bed, please,’ somebody says, and neither are sure who it is, but it doesn’t matter because they both realize that the couch isn’t the place they want to be, and so it’s up and stumble and Andriy leads the way (in more than one way) and they’ve collapsed on the bed. Belts are undone and jeans are pushed off and there’s skin on skin and hands and lips and it’s now or never and the latter isn’t really an option at this point.
So it’s now and they are now and now means Andriy’s hands frantically working both their cocks and Ricky’s hands moving up and down his lover’s back and down and down and down until their hips are pressed tightly and it’s tight! Andriy gasps.
Andriy wakes to find Ricky tucked into his side and they are entangled with arms and legs and sheets and there’s still skin on skin and hands (but no lips-yet?) and he’s still asleep, breathing gently and looking so terribly young, impossibly naïve, but finally worry-free and that’s the way he should be (eighteen!). It almost hurts to look down at him then-almost, because one has to feel to hurt and Andriy doesn’t…he doesn’t do that.
He moves to free himself from the other warm body when the creaks of the bed make Ricky stirs and he opens his eyes-finds Andriy’s-and smiles. The soft, contented sigh and whisper of good morning make his lighter skin prickle with goosebumps.
‘Listen, kid,’ Andriy says, knowing that this is far too much for him to deal with, ‘about last night-’
‘I know,’ Ricky gently interrupts, ‘I know. I didn’t think anybody would understand either, but you…Andriy, you’re…well, you know, and God-God knows, but we-’
‘There is no we,’ Andriy says firmly, taking advantage of the boy’s visibly vulnerable state with his words to disentangle now. ‘There’s no God in this and there’s no we at all and last night-’ he shrugs, ‘-I…you shouldn’t be here right now.’
The loudest silence that he has ever heard comes between them, the little space that separates chest from chest and hips from hips and he looks at everything else in the room before the boy speaks again.
‘Andriy, I…’
The affection in the way Ricky says his name puts the twinge back into his chest and Andriy wishes that he has a better word for it, but everything else sounds so dramatic in his head-too dramatic-and there just isn’t room for drama in his life and this is unnecessarily becoming exactly that.
‘That’s not me last night, okay?’ he says quickly. ‘And that’s not you either. Look, I know boys like you; I see you every day. You’re rich and young and you’re having your fun and the idea of settling down scares you now, but…you get over it. You don’t remember a guy like me, and a guy like me…I don’t get involved, kid, ‘cause you know what? I know. I know and-’
‘And what do you know?’ Ricky has raised his voice and he has backed off on the bed, increasing the space between them, and Andriy thinks that it’s a subconscious action but it still contributes to the…he still can’t find the appropriate word for it. ‘You don’t know anything.’
‘You don’t know anything,’ Andriy says angrily. He points an accusing finger at the boy and continues, ‘Look at you. You spend one night with me and you think you understand, you think you’re…you think you’re in love! You think God and you think we, but you don’t even know me!’
‘I’ll tell you what I know,’ Ricky replies fiercely, looking him straight in the eyes. ‘You stand there behind your bar day in and day out and you think you know life because you’ve seen it in those men and you think you’ve lived it through them or that you’re too good to live it because you know better than to but you don’t know shit, Andriy. You can’t know; you’re so guarded that you don’t allow yourself to feel at all and knowing is feeling and you don’t know if you don’t feel!’
‘Shut up!’ Andriy yells, staggering off the bed now.
‘I felt you last night,’ Ricky whispers, slipping from the bed as well, ‘and that’s how I know…you felt something too, didn’t you, Andriy? Or did you really not, because then it’s not I who don’t know you, Andriy; you don’t know me…and you don’t know nearly as much as you think you do.’
Andriy closes his eyes for a moment and then takes a breath. ‘Get out,’ he manages to say as he turns to disappear behind the bathroom door. ‘I want you out of here.’
He slams the door shut and presses his back against it, breathing erratically and burying his head into his hands. For first time in his life then-or as far as he can remember-Andriy thinks, God.
‘Did you know, Andriy? Bosco’s son got married today!’
Andriy looks up from the tap and frowns at Signor Ancelotti in confusion. ‘Who…?’
‘Bosco Izecson Pereira Leite! Oh, you remember him; used to come in here with his boys once in awhile, their father-sons bonding time and all…’
Andriy shakes his head but offers a polite smile anyway. That doesn’t suffice it for Signor Ancelotti, however, who takes a large swill in exasperation and then shoves the morning paper before Andriy. ‘See? The oldest boy, Ricardo…what a great kid, talented, surely the next big name around here…and the lucky girl too! Pretty little thing, Miss Caroline, is it? Perfect match, absolutely perfect, great things to come from them, I’ll bet you…’
Andriy stares at the headlines and the pictures and the stitch in his heart that has been there for weeks now seems to throb the moment he recognizes the face and the story. He swallows the lump that’s formed in his throat, however, ignores whatever that is in his chest, and pushes the paper back.
‘I didn’t know.’
‘Signor Pirlo? Signore…’
The routine doesn’t change and Andriy crouches down to wipe clean a spill that happened earlier that night. He hears the door swing open and a stool scratch across the floor as it’s pulled out and he straightens up to tell whoever it is that they’ve closed to business now and he’s only started Ehi-! when he sees that boy at the far end again.
‘What are you doing here?’ Andriy says after a silence.
The boy shrugs. ‘Well, I don’t drink, but…’
Andriy shakes his head. ‘Isn’t today the big day? Why…aren’t you home with your wife?’
‘I didn’t marry her,’ the boy explains calmly.
‘…She’s perfect.’
‘I guess I’m just not attracted to perfect then.’
‘Why are you here, Ricky?’ Andriy sighs and puts down the cleaning rag.
‘I…had a talk with God. And He says…He says that He’d forgive me if I come.’
Andriy almost smiles. ‘Did He really?’
‘No,’ Ricky replies, a genuine grin on his boyish face; dark, messy hair sticking to his forehead and his eyes are bright, his lips still red. ‘But I’m willing to find out.’
Andriy shakes his head again and then looks at the boy for a long time before removing his apron.
‘We don’t even know each other,’ he says softly.
‘…But I’m willing to find out.’
And this becomes the world of Andriy (Mykolayovych) Shevchenko; it is the only one he ever wants to know and he never thinks to question it. Frankly, he simply hasn’t a reason to: there’s the face and there’s their story.