!random
this is very random and quite terrible, therefore it doesn't get a proper header or title. because i'm lazy.
four things you (maybe don't) want him to know
claudio marchisio/alex del piero, g
i.
You shake his hand, during your first training with the grown-ups; it's nothing, really, you just shake his hand because that's what people do all the time, shake hands, it's ordinary, it's okay (only it's not ordinary and it's not okay because he smiles, broad and friendly, and his grip is firm, his skin warm, his wedding ring as cold as ice and you shiver); it's nothing, really. (It was everything.)
ii.
He doesn't get it, not really; you tried to explain how it works for you, for everyone, how being able to look up to him makes up for all the wrongs in the world, and he smiled that soft little smile that he has (for you), and he said, "You make me feel like that", so you just gave up, because clearly - clearly - he doesn't get it.
iii.
You are two (and your father makes you watch the games on tv, he tells you to look at that, yeah, that one right there, remember his name, love, remember that, and you look and remember), and you (are already starting to) love him; you are twelve (and you go to the stadium every Sunday or Saturday or Monday or whenever, and it's loud and scary and cold and perfect, and he's down there, a small black and white blotch on the too green field), and you love him; you are twenty, and (you have no idea why, but he lets) you love him. (And loves you in return.) (No clue of the reason there either.)
iv.
During laps, you were so scared you used to fall a couple of steps behind, ten or twenty, actually; one day, he just slowed down, and you noticed too late to adjust your pace, and when you think about it, that is probably how it started, isn't it? Running.
four things you (maybe don't) want him to know
claudio marchisio/alex del piero, g
i.
You shake his hand, during your first training with the grown-ups; it's nothing, really, you just shake his hand because that's what people do all the time, shake hands, it's ordinary, it's okay (only it's not ordinary and it's not okay because he smiles, broad and friendly, and his grip is firm, his skin warm, his wedding ring as cold as ice and you shiver); it's nothing, really. (It was everything.)
ii.
He doesn't get it, not really; you tried to explain how it works for you, for everyone, how being able to look up to him makes up for all the wrongs in the world, and he smiled that soft little smile that he has (for you), and he said, "You make me feel like that", so you just gave up, because clearly - clearly - he doesn't get it.
iii.
You are two (and your father makes you watch the games on tv, he tells you to look at that, yeah, that one right there, remember his name, love, remember that, and you look and remember), and you (are already starting to) love him; you are twelve (and you go to the stadium every Sunday or Saturday or Monday or whenever, and it's loud and scary and cold and perfect, and he's down there, a small black and white blotch on the too green field), and you love him; you are twenty, and (you have no idea why, but he lets) you love him. (And loves you in return.) (No clue of the reason there either.)
iv.
During laps, you were so scared you used to fall a couple of steps behind, ten or twenty, actually; one day, he just slowed down, and you noticed too late to adjust your pace, and when you think about it, that is probably how it started, isn't it? Running.