[fanfiction] football rps
Incentive (Hold on to Nothing)
Football RPS, Andriy Shevchenko/John Terry, PG-13
1266 words
I do not own these boys in any way.
Note: Yes, Sheva loves Kaka or Michael Ballack or Kristen (insert personal opinion here) and JT loves Lamps, but, erm, they had to be written. I had no control over this.
(Is where he’s going more important than where he’s been, or is where he is all that matters?)
The number of games he plays without scoring goes up up up. He stands apart from the team and hides in the shadows, an all-too present reminder of wasted money and unfulfilled expectations. Everyone is harder on him at practice and there’s an underlying note of ”Because he needs it,” to their passes and tackles. He’s busy chasing a ball he’d missed - he’s losing focus on everything slowly but consistently - when he hears someone utter the words “useless” and” waste” and he knows they’re talking about him. It’s enough for him to freeze and do nothing more but then “He must have cheated before” reaches him and something inside snaps.
He stalks over to the group with his fists clenched and shaking slightly, as though they’re expressing some emotion for him. He’s ready to take a swing at everyone just to guarantee that he gets the culprit. He actually lifts his arm over Arjen, who flinches for just an instant before staring ahead with defiance. His hand starts to lower when fingers grip his wrist. He turns to find John glaring at him as though he’s a misbehaving child.
“Don’t.”
Sheva tries to yank his arm back but John won’t let go. Sheva’s tempted to stomp away like a sulking child or even take a swing at his new captor but he realizes how foolish both options are and settles for a petulant scowl. John turns to settle his icy stare on the team and everyone quietly disperses into smaller groups. Then he faces Sheva, who looks away to avoid the expected lecture. It doesn’t come, though, and Sheva looks over in surprise. The look in John’s eyes as he finally releases the arm could have been anger or pity or fear but all Sheva could think about was the feel of those fingers on his wrist, and the way they tightened momentarily before letting go.
The two are talking but neither is listening. John is worried that their new star has no confidence; is worried that he’s deflated beyond hope. Sheva’s thinking that he should be able to relax and laugh, or laugh and relax, instead of focusing on inane details like the color of his captain’s eyes. But he should also be scoring goals, and he’s not, so who really cares about what he should do?
John smiles and Sheva tries to decipher the confident English flying past his ears and it’s not working because that’s just not important at the moment. Then he leans across and kisses John, hoping he can draw away some of the stability there. His lips push in hard and find no resistance but also no answers. He does not find the key to success, or the mystery of the universe, or even what makes John tick.
When they pull apart John continues talking as if nothing had happened while Sheva is left even more off-kilter than before.
He scores twice in three games and the world around him starts to look brighter. The reporters are cautiously optimistic about him returning to form, with positive headlines all followed by question marks. Sheva smiles more (or maybe “more” is inaccurate because how much was he doing it before?) and people start to open up to him. He’s happy and, even if it's just tentative for the moment, it’s a lot more than he’s been recently.
He’s laughing in the dressing room before the next match when John appears and motions for him to follow. He goes without question and is surprised when he’s pushed up against the wall for a kiss. He’s motionless at first, remembering when he was in the opposite position, but it lasts long enough for him to recover and join in. Tongues are tangled together when John abruptly pulls away and winks at him.
“Just keep on scoring, okay?”
Sheva stares at him and feels the fire in his feet, and wonders if one of those at halftime will be acceptable.
There’s a game when the chain is broken, when the pre-game session with the captain has no magic. Not only does he not score goals, but he’s so disastrously off his game that he’s pulled in the 50th minute, even after Jose agreed to another chance at halftime. He sits on the sideline and tries to remain civil while ignoring the sudden shaking of his hands. He plunges them into his pocket and watches the rest of the match with dull eyes, careful to avoid John’s gaze. Not that John is looking at him. It’s nothing more than a kiss before the match, one heart-stopping moment, and then he’s treated no differently from the rest of the team.
[Except for one moment when they collided at practice because Sheva might have let his anger out in a too-hard tackle. John didn’t just go down with a laugh but he brought Sheva with him and they sat unmoving on the ground, matching their breathing and pressing skin against skin wherever possible. But people are watching and they’re forced to part and everything returns to the way it was.]
The match ends and they win because his teammates were not as useless as he was. He storms past the press and ignores everyone else as they ride to the hotel. A group decides to go drinking and he skulks up to his room but sits on the bed for only a minute before the air feels stuffy. He heads out to the balcony and breathes in the fresh air while staring at the pool below. Part of him thinks of falling, of flying for a second before crashing in splendid glory. He’d probably survive if he hit the water, but he could hit the pavement if he angled himself just right, couldn’t he?
He is somehow not surprised to find John standing behind him, his fingers pressing against his back in a way that make him want to fall backwards instead of forwards. He starts to apologize, to babble about losing control of his legs, but that’s not why John is there. He quietly follows him into the room and onto the bed, slowly removing clothing from one another. Their mouths clash together in the now-familiar way and hands are free to travel where they hadn’t gone before.
Sheva knows it’s just a game, just incentive to do better or even to just do. But that doesn’t stop him from brushing his hands along John’s thighs just to get a smile, or from pausing to hear their hearts beating just to check that this wasn’t a vision before he landed.
When Chelsea finally falls short of the title, having traded in their last chance for who-knows-what, he’s surrounded by players with shallow breathing and the possibility of tears in their eyes. John attempts to make a speech about unity and trying hard but he only holds his mouth in a tight line and that action is somehow bitter and sarcastic on its own. They start to clean up and Sheva walks over to John, wondering if he should say “Thank you for everything, particularly the fucking,” or if he should just apologize for all the times he screwed up. In the end he does neither because John does not even acknowledge his presence. He sits with his head bent, his gaze presumably focused on the floor, and after a moment of standing hopelessly over him, Sheva walks away with shaking hands.
A/N: This pretty much wrote itself when I was working on something different. I swear. And look at that word count!
Football RPS, Andriy Shevchenko/John Terry, PG-13
1266 words
I do not own these boys in any way.
Note: Yes, Sheva loves Kaka or Michael Ballack or Kristen (insert personal opinion here) and JT loves Lamps, but, erm, they had to be written. I had no control over this.
(Is where he’s going more important than where he’s been, or is where he is all that matters?)
The number of games he plays without scoring goes up up up. He stands apart from the team and hides in the shadows, an all-too present reminder of wasted money and unfulfilled expectations. Everyone is harder on him at practice and there’s an underlying note of ”Because he needs it,” to their passes and tackles. He’s busy chasing a ball he’d missed - he’s losing focus on everything slowly but consistently - when he hears someone utter the words “useless” and” waste” and he knows they’re talking about him. It’s enough for him to freeze and do nothing more but then “He must have cheated before” reaches him and something inside snaps.
He stalks over to the group with his fists clenched and shaking slightly, as though they’re expressing some emotion for him. He’s ready to take a swing at everyone just to guarantee that he gets the culprit. He actually lifts his arm over Arjen, who flinches for just an instant before staring ahead with defiance. His hand starts to lower when fingers grip his wrist. He turns to find John glaring at him as though he’s a misbehaving child.
“Don’t.”
Sheva tries to yank his arm back but John won’t let go. Sheva’s tempted to stomp away like a sulking child or even take a swing at his new captor but he realizes how foolish both options are and settles for a petulant scowl. John turns to settle his icy stare on the team and everyone quietly disperses into smaller groups. Then he faces Sheva, who looks away to avoid the expected lecture. It doesn’t come, though, and Sheva looks over in surprise. The look in John’s eyes as he finally releases the arm could have been anger or pity or fear but all Sheva could think about was the feel of those fingers on his wrist, and the way they tightened momentarily before letting go.
The two are talking but neither is listening. John is worried that their new star has no confidence; is worried that he’s deflated beyond hope. Sheva’s thinking that he should be able to relax and laugh, or laugh and relax, instead of focusing on inane details like the color of his captain’s eyes. But he should also be scoring goals, and he’s not, so who really cares about what he should do?
John smiles and Sheva tries to decipher the confident English flying past his ears and it’s not working because that’s just not important at the moment. Then he leans across and kisses John, hoping he can draw away some of the stability there. His lips push in hard and find no resistance but also no answers. He does not find the key to success, or the mystery of the universe, or even what makes John tick.
When they pull apart John continues talking as if nothing had happened while Sheva is left even more off-kilter than before.
He scores twice in three games and the world around him starts to look brighter. The reporters are cautiously optimistic about him returning to form, with positive headlines all followed by question marks. Sheva smiles more (or maybe “more” is inaccurate because how much was he doing it before?) and people start to open up to him. He’s happy and, even if it's just tentative for the moment, it’s a lot more than he’s been recently.
He’s laughing in the dressing room before the next match when John appears and motions for him to follow. He goes without question and is surprised when he’s pushed up against the wall for a kiss. He’s motionless at first, remembering when he was in the opposite position, but it lasts long enough for him to recover and join in. Tongues are tangled together when John abruptly pulls away and winks at him.
“Just keep on scoring, okay?”
Sheva stares at him and feels the fire in his feet, and wonders if one of those at halftime will be acceptable.
There’s a game when the chain is broken, when the pre-game session with the captain has no magic. Not only does he not score goals, but he’s so disastrously off his game that he’s pulled in the 50th minute, even after Jose agreed to another chance at halftime. He sits on the sideline and tries to remain civil while ignoring the sudden shaking of his hands. He plunges them into his pocket and watches the rest of the match with dull eyes, careful to avoid John’s gaze. Not that John is looking at him. It’s nothing more than a kiss before the match, one heart-stopping moment, and then he’s treated no differently from the rest of the team.
[Except for one moment when they collided at practice because Sheva might have let his anger out in a too-hard tackle. John didn’t just go down with a laugh but he brought Sheva with him and they sat unmoving on the ground, matching their breathing and pressing skin against skin wherever possible. But people are watching and they’re forced to part and everything returns to the way it was.]
The match ends and they win because his teammates were not as useless as he was. He storms past the press and ignores everyone else as they ride to the hotel. A group decides to go drinking and he skulks up to his room but sits on the bed for only a minute before the air feels stuffy. He heads out to the balcony and breathes in the fresh air while staring at the pool below. Part of him thinks of falling, of flying for a second before crashing in splendid glory. He’d probably survive if he hit the water, but he could hit the pavement if he angled himself just right, couldn’t he?
He is somehow not surprised to find John standing behind him, his fingers pressing against his back in a way that make him want to fall backwards instead of forwards. He starts to apologize, to babble about losing control of his legs, but that’s not why John is there. He quietly follows him into the room and onto the bed, slowly removing clothing from one another. Their mouths clash together in the now-familiar way and hands are free to travel where they hadn’t gone before.
Sheva knows it’s just a game, just incentive to do better or even to just do. But that doesn’t stop him from brushing his hands along John’s thighs just to get a smile, or from pausing to hear their hearts beating just to check that this wasn’t a vision before he landed.
When Chelsea finally falls short of the title, having traded in their last chance for who-knows-what, he’s surrounded by players with shallow breathing and the possibility of tears in their eyes. John attempts to make a speech about unity and trying hard but he only holds his mouth in a tight line and that action is somehow bitter and sarcastic on its own. They start to clean up and Sheva walks over to John, wondering if he should say “Thank you for everything, particularly the fucking,” or if he should just apologize for all the times he screwed up. In the end he does neither because John does not even acknowledge his presence. He sits with his head bent, his gaze presumably focused on the floor, and after a moment of standing hopelessly over him, Sheva walks away with shaking hands.
A/N: This pretty much wrote itself when I was working on something different. I swear. And look at that word count!