Fic: Sky is Burning
Title: Sky is Burning
Author: saint_kat
Rating: R (swearing, implied violence)
Pairing: Petr Cech/John Terry
Prompt: 11. Losses
Disclaimer: The guys? They're real. It's just the rest of the story that's complete fiction.
Summary: Petr is in an irate mood after Chelsea tied again, this time with Aston Villa. His captain, nevertheless, goes to console him.
---
Petr was upset. Deeply upset. He threw his water bottle at the wall in frustration and anger. It was the same case with Charlton and with Everton in the F.A. Cup, though he was a simple observer at that match.
The scoreline was 1-1 after the final whistle blew. The same guy who scored against him before when the two teams met at Stamford Bridge earlier in the season did it again. He was tempted to rip the man's bleeding, beating heart out clean from his chest and kick it into the stands, but he didn't.
"I fucking should have, though," he scowled under his breath in Czech.
---
John spent the last couple of minutes playing damage control with the media, the same media that hawked a Chelsea "mini-crisis" storyline to the masses. He walked inside the locker room and noticed an empty water bottle on the far left wall, slightly dented by the impact. His eyes shifted to the right of him, to the bench where Petr sat, sulking and twitching.
"What the hell's wrong with you, Pete?", John asked, hands squarely on his hip.
Petr glared at him evily. He leaned forward from his position, shoulders hunched, hands clamped together in front of him. The knuckles in his hands started to turn white as they made a vise-like grip.
"Nothing is wrong with me, John," he said, rather acidly. "I'm fine, really. Just trying to clear my head a bit."
John looked at him suspiciously. "Bullshit. The way your hands are placed in front of you, I can see that you're not fine."
"In fact," the skipper added, pacing himself from side to side across the room, "If you were so fucking spectatcular, you wouldn't be giving me that evil look in your eye just now. I see murder in your eyes, mate. Cold, bloody fucking murder."
Petr growled. He bowed his head slowly, then looked up at his captain in anger. "All right, I'm not fine. I'm fucking pissed off that I had to let another damn goal in by the same guy who scored against me months before. Where the hell were you with the defense, huh? You and Gallas could have made my damn job easier if either of you at least tried to clear the ball away from my area."
John stood there in front of him, arms crossed. The tension grew high in the locker room between the defender and the keeper. The silence was deafening enough to cut a knife through it.
---
He could have responded with a "What the fuck gives you the right to criticise me?" response, but he didn't. In fact, he did not say a word to his trusted keeper. Not one word.
Petr grew frustrated at the silent-lipped skipper. He got up from the bench and started to walk towards John, his arms stiffening by his sides and shoulders tensing up. He wanted to deck his captain here and now.
And he should have taken the initiative to hit Petr back, but John stepped forward, meeting the keeper toe to toe, disregarding the obvious height difference between them.
"If you want to hit me, Pete, then fucking hit me," John glowered, daring the taller Cech to do as he was planning to do, "I know you wouldn't hit me if you tried."
Petr's right hand balled up into a tight fist and he was, in fact, about to raise it when he felt John's right hand cover his own. He tried to throw a quick punch with his free left hand, but he was again foiled by John, whose thankful reflexes caught the fist with his own left hand. Keeping his grip, John leaned forward until his face touched Petr's sternum. He kissed the clothed flesh, licking the sweat off his jersey. Burning skin from both men touching one another.
"You couldn't fucking hit me if you tried, Pete," he whispered to the keeper, a mischevious, Cheshire Cat-like grin growing on his face.
Author: saint_kat
Rating: R (swearing, implied violence)
Pairing: Petr Cech/John Terry
Prompt: 11. Losses
Disclaimer: The guys? They're real. It's just the rest of the story that's complete fiction.
Summary: Petr is in an irate mood after Chelsea tied again, this time with Aston Villa. His captain, nevertheless, goes to console him.
---
Petr was upset. Deeply upset. He threw his water bottle at the wall in frustration and anger. It was the same case with Charlton and with Everton in the F.A. Cup, though he was a simple observer at that match.
The scoreline was 1-1 after the final whistle blew. The same guy who scored against him before when the two teams met at Stamford Bridge earlier in the season did it again. He was tempted to rip the man's bleeding, beating heart out clean from his chest and kick it into the stands, but he didn't.
"I fucking should have, though," he scowled under his breath in Czech.
---
John spent the last couple of minutes playing damage control with the media, the same media that hawked a Chelsea "mini-crisis" storyline to the masses. He walked inside the locker room and noticed an empty water bottle on the far left wall, slightly dented by the impact. His eyes shifted to the right of him, to the bench where Petr sat, sulking and twitching.
"What the hell's wrong with you, Pete?", John asked, hands squarely on his hip.
Petr glared at him evily. He leaned forward from his position, shoulders hunched, hands clamped together in front of him. The knuckles in his hands started to turn white as they made a vise-like grip.
"Nothing is wrong with me, John," he said, rather acidly. "I'm fine, really. Just trying to clear my head a bit."
John looked at him suspiciously. "Bullshit. The way your hands are placed in front of you, I can see that you're not fine."
"In fact," the skipper added, pacing himself from side to side across the room, "If you were so fucking spectatcular, you wouldn't be giving me that evil look in your eye just now. I see murder in your eyes, mate. Cold, bloody fucking murder."
Petr growled. He bowed his head slowly, then looked up at his captain in anger. "All right, I'm not fine. I'm fucking pissed off that I had to let another damn goal in by the same guy who scored against me months before. Where the hell were you with the defense, huh? You and Gallas could have made my damn job easier if either of you at least tried to clear the ball away from my area."
John stood there in front of him, arms crossed. The tension grew high in the locker room between the defender and the keeper. The silence was deafening enough to cut a knife through it.
---
He could have responded with a "What the fuck gives you the right to criticise me?" response, but he didn't. In fact, he did not say a word to his trusted keeper. Not one word.
Petr grew frustrated at the silent-lipped skipper. He got up from the bench and started to walk towards John, his arms stiffening by his sides and shoulders tensing up. He wanted to deck his captain here and now.
And he should have taken the initiative to hit Petr back, but John stepped forward, meeting the keeper toe to toe, disregarding the obvious height difference between them.
"If you want to hit me, Pete, then fucking hit me," John glowered, daring the taller Cech to do as he was planning to do, "I know you wouldn't hit me if you tried."
Petr's right hand balled up into a tight fist and he was, in fact, about to raise it when he felt John's right hand cover his own. He tried to throw a quick punch with his free left hand, but he was again foiled by John, whose thankful reflexes caught the fist with his own left hand. Keeping his grip, John leaned forward until his face touched Petr's sternum. He kissed the clothed flesh, licking the sweat off his jersey. Burning skin from both men touching one another.
"You couldn't fucking hit me if you tried, Pete," he whispered to the keeper, a mischevious, Cheshire Cat-like grin growing on his face.