Fic: Hear you breathing
Title: Hear you breathing
Author: el_defe
Beta: lisachanoando ♥♥♥
Fandom: RPF Football
Characters: Frank Lampard/John Terry, José Mourinho, José "Zuca" Mourinho jr., Georgie John Terry (other people mentioned)
Rating: 16+
Warning: slash, mild sex scenes, what if?, English language
Word Count: 1,455 (FDP)
Note: Covering a long span time, from 2001 to somewhere in the Twenties. May Issue of Football Slash Exchange.
Disclaimer: I do not own them, I don't earn anything, except personal and others' amusement.
Hear you breathing
You were not a boy anymore when you crossed London and joined Chelsea: you had already spent years among the happiest ones at West Ham, playing as your natural instinct asked you to and playing well as your technique, skill, and self-esteem, allowed you to. You stood in front of everyone and everything with unusual experience - you can say that, now, after that no one in the world dares to deny such prideful words - and even if you had left your team for one of their archrivals, West Ham supporters still run at you and ask you a photo or a signature for their collection without a second thought.
Still, you felt like you still were a boy when you met John your first time. A teen, moreover even if you were pushing for 23. You felt intimidated, embarrassed, even shy, every time he spoke to you: you tried to convince yourself that it wasn’t the right reaction for a younger player, a kind and easy guy, just a little less talkative than you in every other situation but you being alone in a small room with him.
You can’t think of the exact moment you understood, neither you can’t remember the first time you tried to kiss him - maybe John ran away, maybe not, who knows? You were abashed and shocked and you can’t even recall how his mouth and tongue tasted, on the lockers’ threshold (if you managed to achieve your try, of course). Instead, you like to indulge and remember your second kiss, because you were both aware of what was going on (beer helped both you and John, but just a little): you remember his warm, soft lips and the slightly aggressive movements of his tongue, the tight grip of his left hand on your hip and the hesitant, rough stroke of his right one on your almost-feverish cheek.
«I can definitely improve,» he muffled after a while, bursting into an embarrassed laughter and looking to the empty bottle. You remember that, and you remember the third kiss you left on his lips, proving him that he had been quite good, after all.
Years pass in fast-forward in your mind: steaming grips in each other’s trousers, stifled moans, wet, open kisses and moments stolen to time at every chance, hoping that time would be so kind to not ask back to you.
Then Mourinho (you can’t even remember about calling him anyway but José) came and replaced Ranieri, and your first thought when he took possession of your habits, of your team and of yourselves too, had been spontaneous and ordinary: you did like him. Your second thought was about John, although, because you desperately wanted him to like your new coach, too; and until some months later - months spent in training and fatigue, building the ramp of your success brick after brick and too tired even to think of kissing your captain - you weren’t even certain of it.
Struggling with the funny, enjoyable weakness you feel every time you think about that man, you can recall your best memories about him: the little party before Christmas Eve, when José looked at you and caught you biting a candy stick, your cheeks burning for the never-too-cold sparkling wine and your eyes while John sings out Deck the halls, and he smiled while walking away, choosing to keep for himself a secret too big to be restrained in such a small dining room. And then, the warm hug José gave to both of you, whispering words of wise courage in losses and scathing hints, but with a definitely amused tone in his voice, in the most joyful of your victories. You liked him, John liked him. And he liked both of you, for sure.
You know he’s retired now: he probably just watches his son keeping safe the goal of your team, and you like to think that the scars of the blue lion are still vivid in his now-aged heart, as the marks of the Dragões and teeth of the Great Snake do; and he’s a part of you, the strong shield who defended you even when you thought you didn’t needed it.
You still think it’s funny that you moved forward years later.
You knocked once at the door of the hotel room in which John had locked himself in since he had left home; everyone knew, but no one was really aware of what was going on. If Mr. Román in person hadn’t given you the name and the room of the hotel he had chosen, maybe you wouldn’t have found him in days, and it would have been too late to book a room on the same floor.
«What have you done?» you said after the knock, without any disconcertment or judgement, leaning against the white door, your cheek pressed on the golden plate with the number of the room. (What was it?) Luckily enough, he opened the door almost instantly when he recognized your voice, keeping his eyes low.
«Being a jerk.» His voice was cracked as he had a cold. «Nothing new.»
«You’re not a jerk.»
«Tell Toni, then. Tell Summer and Georgie. Tell everyone in this goddamn world that I’m not a jerk! Guess what? No one will believe you, of course, my noose is ready!» He looked directly at you, after that, and there wasn’t a single trace of tears in his eyes. «I’m sorry.»
«Do you really want to hide here forever?»
«It could be an idea.»
You had to smile. «You need to thought it through.»
You’re not a saint, you never pretended to be: you suspected, no, you knew about Vanessa. Who couldn’t? You recognized her smell on John’s skin sometimes, when you laid near him on the couch, half naked, touching him at almost the same pace he did - and he’s fast, he always has been, and he stroke you hard and forced you to come before him, every single time, smiling as you stifle your moans against his naked chest and waiting for you to resume what you were doing. You found traces of her a half dozen of times, a foulard, a card, a missed call John didn’t cancel on his phone. And you ignored all of this, because you felt like her, too much charmed - too much selfish - to give up and let him go to Toni, and too much gentle - too much selfish again - to tell Toni the truth before someone else did. You were as guilty as him.
You helped John to reconsider all the mess both of you did. You kissed him on the lips, thus disavowing everything you had said just a moment before. And when he asked you to go beyond, he begged you to fuck him, he pled you to fuck him harder, you always said “yes”, until the end.
Chelsea will play the Champions’ League final again: it’s the third time in a row, memories of the last two finals - the bitter loss against Inter, the triumph against Bayern - are too vivid to be forgotten so easily. Silence is thick as the loudest of sounds, no one has spoken since you said your last recommendations and you didn’t, either. Zuca looks at the tiles, his lips sealed in a nervous smirk that makes him quite similar to his father; he’s playing with his gloves, ready to wear them in the entrance tunnel. You look around, wondering if you’ll be able to put Georgie on the field, but this is a problem you’ll face during the match.
«Boys,» you say, your voice as low as a whisper, your throat dry, «let’s go. Make me proud of you.»
He waits for you in the tunnel, as you were expecting (as he promised, even if you don’t remember quite anything he says when you share the same bed). «You’re nervous» he says, fixing up the spokesman badge gone crooked.
«You too» you retort with a feeble smile. You give John some time to see his son entering on the final corridor, ready for the ceremonial entrance as title-holders. «I don’t know if Georgie will-»
«I trust you.» He puts his right hand on your shoulder, holding it firmly. «You must think the best for the team, don’t care for my son. Or me.»
«I know that. I just thought it would be a nice present for your fiftieth.»
John stares at you, puzzled. «My birthday is next December. And- and I’m not fiftieth!»
You laugh, finally. The last players of your line look at you with a less nervous gaze, and then avert their eyes just a second before John lets his hand slip over your shoulder, groping your hip. «Tonight? Whatever may happen?»
Your answers gets lost in the noise of the exalted crowd. The referee whistles.
But of all these friends and lovers
There is no one compares with you
And these memories lose their meaning
When I think of love as something new
Though I know I’ll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I’ll often stop and think about them
In my life I love you more
(In My Life - The Beatles)
A/N: Dragões is a reference to FC Porto, the Great Snake (il Biscione) is the symbol of FC Internazionale: Mourinho has been the coach for both teams. The blue lion, obviously, stands for Chelsea. "Zuca" is the nickname of Mourinho's son, as he's named after him; little José (turning 11 this year) has been training as a goalkeeper in the last years in both Milan and Madrid. Georgie John is one of the two twins of John Terry (the other being Summer Rose), now 5. Thanks for reading!
Author: el_defe
Beta: lisachanoando ♥♥♥
Fandom: RPF Football
Characters: Frank Lampard/John Terry, José Mourinho, José "Zuca" Mourinho jr., Georgie John Terry (other people mentioned)
Rating: 16+
Warning: slash, mild sex scenes, what if?, English language
Word Count: 1,455 (FDP)
Note: Covering a long span time, from 2001 to somewhere in the Twenties. May Issue of Football Slash Exchange.
Disclaimer: I do not own them, I don't earn anything, except personal and others' amusement.
Hear you breathing
You were not a boy anymore when you crossed London and joined Chelsea: you had already spent years among the happiest ones at West Ham, playing as your natural instinct asked you to and playing well as your technique, skill, and self-esteem, allowed you to. You stood in front of everyone and everything with unusual experience - you can say that, now, after that no one in the world dares to deny such prideful words - and even if you had left your team for one of their archrivals, West Ham supporters still run at you and ask you a photo or a signature for their collection without a second thought.
Still, you felt like you still were a boy when you met John your first time. A teen, moreover even if you were pushing for 23. You felt intimidated, embarrassed, even shy, every time he spoke to you: you tried to convince yourself that it wasn’t the right reaction for a younger player, a kind and easy guy, just a little less talkative than you in every other situation but you being alone in a small room with him.
You can’t think of the exact moment you understood, neither you can’t remember the first time you tried to kiss him - maybe John ran away, maybe not, who knows? You were abashed and shocked and you can’t even recall how his mouth and tongue tasted, on the lockers’ threshold (if you managed to achieve your try, of course). Instead, you like to indulge and remember your second kiss, because you were both aware of what was going on (beer helped both you and John, but just a little): you remember his warm, soft lips and the slightly aggressive movements of his tongue, the tight grip of his left hand on your hip and the hesitant, rough stroke of his right one on your almost-feverish cheek.
«I can definitely improve,» he muffled after a while, bursting into an embarrassed laughter and looking to the empty bottle. You remember that, and you remember the third kiss you left on his lips, proving him that he had been quite good, after all.
Years pass in fast-forward in your mind: steaming grips in each other’s trousers, stifled moans, wet, open kisses and moments stolen to time at every chance, hoping that time would be so kind to not ask back to you.
Then Mourinho (you can’t even remember about calling him anyway but José) came and replaced Ranieri, and your first thought when he took possession of your habits, of your team and of yourselves too, had been spontaneous and ordinary: you did like him. Your second thought was about John, although, because you desperately wanted him to like your new coach, too; and until some months later - months spent in training and fatigue, building the ramp of your success brick after brick and too tired even to think of kissing your captain - you weren’t even certain of it.
Struggling with the funny, enjoyable weakness you feel every time you think about that man, you can recall your best memories about him: the little party before Christmas Eve, when José looked at you and caught you biting a candy stick, your cheeks burning for the never-too-cold sparkling wine and your eyes while John sings out Deck the halls, and he smiled while walking away, choosing to keep for himself a secret too big to be restrained in such a small dining room. And then, the warm hug José gave to both of you, whispering words of wise courage in losses and scathing hints, but with a definitely amused tone in his voice, in the most joyful of your victories. You liked him, John liked him. And he liked both of you, for sure.
You know he’s retired now: he probably just watches his son keeping safe the goal of your team, and you like to think that the scars of the blue lion are still vivid in his now-aged heart, as the marks of the Dragões and teeth of the Great Snake do; and he’s a part of you, the strong shield who defended you even when you thought you didn’t needed it.
You still think it’s funny that you moved forward years later.
You knocked once at the door of the hotel room in which John had locked himself in since he had left home; everyone knew, but no one was really aware of what was going on. If Mr. Román in person hadn’t given you the name and the room of the hotel he had chosen, maybe you wouldn’t have found him in days, and it would have been too late to book a room on the same floor.
«What have you done?» you said after the knock, without any disconcertment or judgement, leaning against the white door, your cheek pressed on the golden plate with the number of the room. (What was it?) Luckily enough, he opened the door almost instantly when he recognized your voice, keeping his eyes low.
«Being a jerk.» His voice was cracked as he had a cold. «Nothing new.»
«You’re not a jerk.»
«Tell Toni, then. Tell Summer and Georgie. Tell everyone in this goddamn world that I’m not a jerk! Guess what? No one will believe you, of course, my noose is ready!» He looked directly at you, after that, and there wasn’t a single trace of tears in his eyes. «I’m sorry.»
«Do you really want to hide here forever?»
«It could be an idea.»
You had to smile. «You need to thought it through.»
You’re not a saint, you never pretended to be: you suspected, no, you knew about Vanessa. Who couldn’t? You recognized her smell on John’s skin sometimes, when you laid near him on the couch, half naked, touching him at almost the same pace he did - and he’s fast, he always has been, and he stroke you hard and forced you to come before him, every single time, smiling as you stifle your moans against his naked chest and waiting for you to resume what you were doing. You found traces of her a half dozen of times, a foulard, a card, a missed call John didn’t cancel on his phone. And you ignored all of this, because you felt like her, too much charmed - too much selfish - to give up and let him go to Toni, and too much gentle - too much selfish again - to tell Toni the truth before someone else did. You were as guilty as him.
You helped John to reconsider all the mess both of you did. You kissed him on the lips, thus disavowing everything you had said just a moment before. And when he asked you to go beyond, he begged you to fuck him, he pled you to fuck him harder, you always said “yes”, until the end.
Chelsea will play the Champions’ League final again: it’s the third time in a row, memories of the last two finals - the bitter loss against Inter, the triumph against Bayern - are too vivid to be forgotten so easily. Silence is thick as the loudest of sounds, no one has spoken since you said your last recommendations and you didn’t, either. Zuca looks at the tiles, his lips sealed in a nervous smirk that makes him quite similar to his father; he’s playing with his gloves, ready to wear them in the entrance tunnel. You look around, wondering if you’ll be able to put Georgie on the field, but this is a problem you’ll face during the match.
«Boys,» you say, your voice as low as a whisper, your throat dry, «let’s go. Make me proud of you.»
He waits for you in the tunnel, as you were expecting (as he promised, even if you don’t remember quite anything he says when you share the same bed). «You’re nervous» he says, fixing up the spokesman badge gone crooked.
«You too» you retort with a feeble smile. You give John some time to see his son entering on the final corridor, ready for the ceremonial entrance as title-holders. «I don’t know if Georgie will-»
«I trust you.» He puts his right hand on your shoulder, holding it firmly. «You must think the best for the team, don’t care for my son. Or me.»
«I know that. I just thought it would be a nice present for your fiftieth.»
John stares at you, puzzled. «My birthday is next December. And- and I’m not fiftieth!»
You laugh, finally. The last players of your line look at you with a less nervous gaze, and then avert their eyes just a second before John lets his hand slip over your shoulder, groping your hip. «Tonight? Whatever may happen?»
Your answers gets lost in the noise of the exalted crowd. The referee whistles.
But of all these friends and lovers
There is no one compares with you
And these memories lose their meaning
When I think of love as something new
Though I know I’ll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I’ll often stop and think about them
In my life I love you more
(In My Life - The Beatles)
A/N: Dragões is a reference to FC Porto, the Great Snake (il Biscione) is the symbol of FC Internazionale: Mourinho has been the coach for both teams. The blue lion, obviously, stands for Chelsea. "Zuca" is the nickname of Mourinho's son, as he's named after him; little José (turning 11 this year) has been training as a goalkeeper in the last years in both Milan and Madrid. Georgie John is one of the two twins of John Terry (the other being Summer Rose), now 5. Thanks for reading!