For kou_andri
For: kou_andri
Title: Piccoli Spiriti Blu
Rating: PG at most
Pairing: Pavel Nedvěd/Andriy Shevchenko
Disclaimer: So very not true.
A/N: Set during and after Juve-Milan, the last game of the first half of the season in 2004 which ended 0-0. Sheva had just been awarded the Ballon d'Or five days previous to the match with Nedved as the previous winner. Torino is mad for chocolate. And also for Christmas lights. Title taken from the title of the light sculpture at the church.
It was cold, and as he blew into his gloved hands while stepping into line behind Ale, Pavel just wanted the whole thing to be over.
That wasn't entirely true, of course; games like this - tension of the andata coming to a rolling boil, a battle over three points in a four point Scudetto race, facing a team who could make you bleed to match their own red and black without a second thought - the anxiety of it all was everything Pavel loved about the game and the snap of it sang along with the Curva Sud into Torino's winter air. He lost himself in it for a moment as the handshakes began traveling down and then -
He gave Shevchenko a smile and a nod receiving an equally controlled one in return and Pavel sagged back to reality:
The Crown Passed Between Two Eastern Princes
Nedved, Sheva; the Clash of Past and Present
Scudett'Or Showdown for Juve-Milan
No one ever denied the Italian press's love for a good Greek drama. For the five days leading up to the game (the five days after Shevchenko had officially been handed the giant thing, of course) Pavel had been under some kind of quicksand assault of "your thoughts please", "how do you feel?", and "how does this change the game?". As much as he snorted at that last one and provided that it doesn't, thank you, every game is a game to be fought for and won by 11 men, sweat and sacrifice, as he watches Shevchenko's hand trail out of his peripheral to the next a fierce wave of determination washes over him. Maybe he does feel there's something to prove after all.
So he throws himself down the field like a man possessed, trying to tear away with the ball, lashing futile attempts over the bar and fuming when the game's hand finally seems to be tipping. There's a flash of red and a strike and Gigi flings his body across the goal mouth but he can't stop the wood's vicious clatter from ringing across the entire pitch; Pavel pushes the halo of hair from his forehead and catches the eye of an agonizingly frustrated Shevchenko seeing for an unguarded second the same desperate determination he knows is simmering in his own expression. And he feels a strange calm as he continues to battle - but the game still ends at a deadlock.
There are, of course, the pressers peppered with clichés and tempered with wishes for a good Christmas, but it's over; it's over and Pavel wraps a white scarf around his neck, pulls a hat over his eyes and steps quietly into Torino's center - he would leave for holiday the next day and would rather leave his frustrations in Italy. Or so he reasoned, but really, as he rounded the corner and the full burst of color from the city's Christmas light sculptures radiated down the length of the street, he conceded to himself that walking through the Luci d'Artista was reason enough for being out tonight. Strung above the street were filaments of tiny stars studded with buzzing constellations that reflected a soft glimmer in the garlands strung over various storefronts and restaurants and the sight of it nearly had him on the phone with Ivana persuading her that maybe staying wouldn't be such a terrible idea this year. He jammed leather-clad fingers deeper into his pockets and trudged under Ursa Major losing all track of time and location.
He'd barely registered the sharp jump in volume from the rather posh restaurant he'd just passed when soft footsteps pulled up beside him and a hand gripped at his elbow. He spun around startled, mouth half open in reproach and just as quickly snapped it shut as he was greeted with dark eyes nearly yellow with the reflection of the huge colorful lanterns spinning over the piazza. He peered into the restaurant window, Gattuso chatting animatedly with Pirlo, and then back to Shevchenko whose hand was still wrapped around his arm. Pavel retraced his smile from earlier that night, and wished Shevchenko what he hoped was an all-encompassing congratulations while yanking a few strands of hair that the icy wind had tugged free further beneath his hat. Shevchenko didn't move, not even to pull his own hair from whipping into his eyes. The unnerving silence and even more persistent stare was more than Pavel was willing to decipher at this hour and after an even 'Buon Natale' he turned to continue down the street - the fingers on his arm loosened, but the footsteps continued alongside him. He peered up at Shevchenko who trailed a nearly imperceptible inch behind and was met with a tentative smile and a quirk of the eyebrows which clearly asked permission.
Pavel froze with more than a little bit of confusion - apparently Shevchenko, despite what seemed like a usually easy demeanor had become a mute who was more willing to trail along in the bitter cold rather than enjoy what appeared to be a nice time with his teammates. Curiosity won over; Pavel nodded consent and continued not waiting for a response.
And so they walked silently, Pavel vaguely aware of the warmth of the man beside him nearly folded into his own coat but no more aware of his intentions. He stole glances: Shevchenko's hair entirely windswept, his face half hidden under a thick black scarf, his eyes fixed on the street ahead. He caught his eyes as they crossed the bridge, and held the stare trying to coerce anything from the other man.
"The lights here. They're beautiful." If he hadn't been watching Shevchenko speak, he'd have missed the quiet statement altogether and as it were, after he had turned his head reflexively to follow the shining neon letters racing bright white along the Po, he turned back and Shevchenko was once again staring silently ahead. Pavel began to wonder if this was all just a figment of his imagination but still held his breath as he waited for the Monte dei Cappuccini to come into full view.
He was pleased when not even Shevchenko's stoic mask could completely smother the flicker of awe at the church looming a frozen, vivid blue high against the dark sky, the glowing rings cast out overhead from its dome quivering in the wind. Shevchenko walked closer, eyes glued upward, leaving Pavel a few steps behind to watch as the cool aura of the light slid over the younger man's jawline, and suddenly Shevchenko was a study in black and blue all hard-cut shadows and glittering eyes leaving Pavel more than glad that they hadn't been walking towards Piazzetta Reale and the steaming red-lit fountain there - although he was sure the red would suit Shevchenko frightfully well. And suddenly and silently as he'd been the rest of the night, Shevchenko was within an inch of Pavel, fingers wrapped around his own coldly illuminated wrist, eyes and lips leeched of any color but a near-black shadow. The neon above them hummed out its tension and Pavel could smell the acrid sweetness of a recently-drank chocolate on the other man's mouth and the dark vaguely-spicy warmth of his skin as he pressed closer to speak just above a whisper, "I have to get back to the others now" - a pause and a the soft scratch of winter fabrics - "Thank you."
Before he could pull away, respond, or even register what was happening, Pavel was watching Shevchenko's retreating back as he walked back towards the bridge, the strange blue of his tailored wool coat fading to black as he left the church behind. The halos swayed above him and Pavel tasted the trace of chocolate left on his lips.
Title: Piccoli Spiriti Blu
Rating: PG at most
Pairing: Pavel Nedvěd/Andriy Shevchenko
Disclaimer: So very not true.
A/N: Set during and after Juve-Milan, the last game of the first half of the season in 2004 which ended 0-0. Sheva had just been awarded the Ballon d'Or five days previous to the match with Nedved as the previous winner. Torino is mad for chocolate. And also for Christmas lights. Title taken from the title of the light sculpture at the church.
It was cold, and as he blew into his gloved hands while stepping into line behind Ale, Pavel just wanted the whole thing to be over.
That wasn't entirely true, of course; games like this - tension of the andata coming to a rolling boil, a battle over three points in a four point Scudetto race, facing a team who could make you bleed to match their own red and black without a second thought - the anxiety of it all was everything Pavel loved about the game and the snap of it sang along with the Curva Sud into Torino's winter air. He lost himself in it for a moment as the handshakes began traveling down and then -
He gave Shevchenko a smile and a nod receiving an equally controlled one in return and Pavel sagged back to reality:
The Crown Passed Between Two Eastern Princes
Nedved, Sheva; the Clash of Past and Present
Scudett'Or Showdown for Juve-Milan
No one ever denied the Italian press's love for a good Greek drama. For the five days leading up to the game (the five days after Shevchenko had officially been handed the giant thing, of course) Pavel had been under some kind of quicksand assault of "your thoughts please", "how do you feel?", and "how does this change the game?". As much as he snorted at that last one and provided that it doesn't, thank you, every game is a game to be fought for and won by 11 men, sweat and sacrifice, as he watches Shevchenko's hand trail out of his peripheral to the next a fierce wave of determination washes over him. Maybe he does feel there's something to prove after all.
So he throws himself down the field like a man possessed, trying to tear away with the ball, lashing futile attempts over the bar and fuming when the game's hand finally seems to be tipping. There's a flash of red and a strike and Gigi flings his body across the goal mouth but he can't stop the wood's vicious clatter from ringing across the entire pitch; Pavel pushes the halo of hair from his forehead and catches the eye of an agonizingly frustrated Shevchenko seeing for an unguarded second the same desperate determination he knows is simmering in his own expression. And he feels a strange calm as he continues to battle - but the game still ends at a deadlock.
There are, of course, the pressers peppered with clichés and tempered with wishes for a good Christmas, but it's over; it's over and Pavel wraps a white scarf around his neck, pulls a hat over his eyes and steps quietly into Torino's center - he would leave for holiday the next day and would rather leave his frustrations in Italy. Or so he reasoned, but really, as he rounded the corner and the full burst of color from the city's Christmas light sculptures radiated down the length of the street, he conceded to himself that walking through the Luci d'Artista was reason enough for being out tonight. Strung above the street were filaments of tiny stars studded with buzzing constellations that reflected a soft glimmer in the garlands strung over various storefronts and restaurants and the sight of it nearly had him on the phone with Ivana persuading her that maybe staying wouldn't be such a terrible idea this year. He jammed leather-clad fingers deeper into his pockets and trudged under Ursa Major losing all track of time and location.
He'd barely registered the sharp jump in volume from the rather posh restaurant he'd just passed when soft footsteps pulled up beside him and a hand gripped at his elbow. He spun around startled, mouth half open in reproach and just as quickly snapped it shut as he was greeted with dark eyes nearly yellow with the reflection of the huge colorful lanterns spinning over the piazza. He peered into the restaurant window, Gattuso chatting animatedly with Pirlo, and then back to Shevchenko whose hand was still wrapped around his arm. Pavel retraced his smile from earlier that night, and wished Shevchenko what he hoped was an all-encompassing congratulations while yanking a few strands of hair that the icy wind had tugged free further beneath his hat. Shevchenko didn't move, not even to pull his own hair from whipping into his eyes. The unnerving silence and even more persistent stare was more than Pavel was willing to decipher at this hour and after an even 'Buon Natale' he turned to continue down the street - the fingers on his arm loosened, but the footsteps continued alongside him. He peered up at Shevchenko who trailed a nearly imperceptible inch behind and was met with a tentative smile and a quirk of the eyebrows which clearly asked permission.
Pavel froze with more than a little bit of confusion - apparently Shevchenko, despite what seemed like a usually easy demeanor had become a mute who was more willing to trail along in the bitter cold rather than enjoy what appeared to be a nice time with his teammates. Curiosity won over; Pavel nodded consent and continued not waiting for a response.
And so they walked silently, Pavel vaguely aware of the warmth of the man beside him nearly folded into his own coat but no more aware of his intentions. He stole glances: Shevchenko's hair entirely windswept, his face half hidden under a thick black scarf, his eyes fixed on the street ahead. He caught his eyes as they crossed the bridge, and held the stare trying to coerce anything from the other man.
"The lights here. They're beautiful." If he hadn't been watching Shevchenko speak, he'd have missed the quiet statement altogether and as it were, after he had turned his head reflexively to follow the shining neon letters racing bright white along the Po, he turned back and Shevchenko was once again staring silently ahead. Pavel began to wonder if this was all just a figment of his imagination but still held his breath as he waited for the Monte dei Cappuccini to come into full view.
He was pleased when not even Shevchenko's stoic mask could completely smother the flicker of awe at the church looming a frozen, vivid blue high against the dark sky, the glowing rings cast out overhead from its dome quivering in the wind. Shevchenko walked closer, eyes glued upward, leaving Pavel a few steps behind to watch as the cool aura of the light slid over the younger man's jawline, and suddenly Shevchenko was a study in black and blue all hard-cut shadows and glittering eyes leaving Pavel more than glad that they hadn't been walking towards Piazzetta Reale and the steaming red-lit fountain there - although he was sure the red would suit Shevchenko frightfully well. And suddenly and silently as he'd been the rest of the night, Shevchenko was within an inch of Pavel, fingers wrapped around his own coldly illuminated wrist, eyes and lips leeched of any color but a near-black shadow. The neon above them hummed out its tension and Pavel could smell the acrid sweetness of a recently-drank chocolate on the other man's mouth and the dark vaguely-spicy warmth of his skin as he pressed closer to speak just above a whisper, "I have to get back to the others now" - a pause and a the soft scratch of winter fabrics - "Thank you."
Before he could pull away, respond, or even register what was happening, Pavel was watching Shevchenko's retreating back as he walked back towards the bridge, the strange blue of his tailored wool coat fading to black as he left the church behind. The halos swayed above him and Pavel tasted the trace of chocolate left on his lips.