(no subject)
Title: Dealing With Pompey
Rating: PG
Pairing: Ole/Paul
Paul liked to keep his personal thoughts to himself, to keep them out of the public.
Whenever you thought, mused about it, you felt reminded of Norway.
In quiet mystery, the wide lansdscape of your homecountry lay before unknowing visitors, who would shake their heads at how rough and cold and empty it was (and yet, they would try to shake off an odd sense of fascination that had gripped them).
But for you, it weren't the things that everyone could see that made Norway the beautiful country it was. It were the small things, a ray of sunlight reflecting on the waters of the fjords, little footsteps of a mouse or a little bird on a patch of snow; the wind moving among rare fields of yellowish grass.
With Paul, it was the same.
He turned up on your doorstep, late at night after the game at Porthsmouth, and if Silje had been there, if she had opened the door, she would've seen him in his tracksuit, maybe a bit tired, but - normal, normal as Paul could be. There was no sign of anger or frustration. Sadness. Not in his expression, anyway.
You knew though he felt all those things when you sat in your kitchen, watching him as he rummaged around in your fridge for a beer. It were the small things, not big gestures and words that told you; the sharp outline of Paul's tightly clenched jaw in the somewhat low light of the lamp over the sink, breath, exhaled through the nose in silent annoyance, slightly shaking hands that tried to flip open the beer bottle.
"Paul."
His hands were still fumbling with the closure. He didn't say anything; but that said everything, for you.
"The season is still long, Paul, there are so many..."
"I know, Ole! It's just - I mean, look!" He had given up on the beer bottle and had turned around to you - lost for words, he made a weak gesture and shook his head, his voice trailing off. There was a difference between 'being silent on purpose' and 'being lost for words', and Paul, if anything, had never been the second. Up to now.
You could just hold him close when the two of you stood in the poorly lit kitchen seconds later; his forehead on your shoulder and his arms wrapped tightly around your waist, you were silent; listened to his breath, felt it, warm on your skin through your shirt, ran your hands through his ginger hair.
Tick-tock, tick-tock. The clock ticked the time away, and you wondered what Paul thought just now. But you didn't dare to ask, didn't want to disturb his trains of thought, the silence that he so much deserved and needed after all this. So you just waited; and hoped.
"..Ole?"
"Hm?"
"Would you mind if I..."
"No. Not at all, Paul."
***
He was asleep before you were; and you lay in the darkness of your bedroom and listened to his steady breathing. The light of a car driving by crawled through the jalousies, felt its way over the ceiliing and caressed his features before it vanished.
You reached out and found his hand; squeezing it gently, you settled back into your pillow and closed your eyes with a content sigh.
"Oh, just how kinky are you?" Paul muttered quiety, sleepily, and shifted a little. He didn't pull away, though; but squeezed your hand in return instead.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Ole/Paul
Paul liked to keep his personal thoughts to himself, to keep them out of the public.
Whenever you thought, mused about it, you felt reminded of Norway.
In quiet mystery, the wide lansdscape of your homecountry lay before unknowing visitors, who would shake their heads at how rough and cold and empty it was (and yet, they would try to shake off an odd sense of fascination that had gripped them).
But for you, it weren't the things that everyone could see that made Norway the beautiful country it was. It were the small things, a ray of sunlight reflecting on the waters of the fjords, little footsteps of a mouse or a little bird on a patch of snow; the wind moving among rare fields of yellowish grass.
With Paul, it was the same.
He turned up on your doorstep, late at night after the game at Porthsmouth, and if Silje had been there, if she had opened the door, she would've seen him in his tracksuit, maybe a bit tired, but - normal, normal as Paul could be. There was no sign of anger or frustration. Sadness. Not in his expression, anyway.
You knew though he felt all those things when you sat in your kitchen, watching him as he rummaged around in your fridge for a beer. It were the small things, not big gestures and words that told you; the sharp outline of Paul's tightly clenched jaw in the somewhat low light of the lamp over the sink, breath, exhaled through the nose in silent annoyance, slightly shaking hands that tried to flip open the beer bottle.
"Paul."
His hands were still fumbling with the closure. He didn't say anything; but that said everything, for you.
"The season is still long, Paul, there are so many..."
"I know, Ole! It's just - I mean, look!" He had given up on the beer bottle and had turned around to you - lost for words, he made a weak gesture and shook his head, his voice trailing off. There was a difference between 'being silent on purpose' and 'being lost for words', and Paul, if anything, had never been the second. Up to now.
You could just hold him close when the two of you stood in the poorly lit kitchen seconds later; his forehead on your shoulder and his arms wrapped tightly around your waist, you were silent; listened to his breath, felt it, warm on your skin through your shirt, ran your hands through his ginger hair.
Tick-tock, tick-tock. The clock ticked the time away, and you wondered what Paul thought just now. But you didn't dare to ask, didn't want to disturb his trains of thought, the silence that he so much deserved and needed after all this. So you just waited; and hoped.
"..Ole?"
"Hm?"
"Would you mind if I..."
"No. Not at all, Paul."
***
He was asleep before you were; and you lay in the darkness of your bedroom and listened to his steady breathing. The light of a car driving by crawled through the jalousies, felt its way over the ceiliing and caressed his features before it vanished.
You reached out and found his hand; squeezing it gently, you settled back into your pillow and closed your eyes with a content sigh.
"Oh, just how kinky are you?" Paul muttered quiety, sleepily, and shifted a little. He didn't pull away, though; but squeezed your hand in return instead.