[Fic] Fall (Roy Keane / Alan Smith)
Title : Fall
Author : hiro_chan
Rating : R for some sexual references.
Pairing : Roy Keane / Alan Smith
Disclaimer : Absolutely, definitely, totally untrue.
Author's Note :
1. This is a long time coming, actually. esther_91 has been brainwashing me for so long about Roy/Alan and put a gun on my head and told me to write one. And it has taken me just as long to get this done mainly because i can't quite grasp their characterizations :(. However, I hope it is to your liking, babe ;).
For convenience sake (or is it just because I'm too lazy?? haha) this is also for bird_or_devil who asked for a Keano fic in exchange for more Ole/Paul porn (you still remember that, right?? RIGHT XD??). I hope it's Keano enough for you but if it isn't, let me know ;p.
2. Like I said, am struggling with the characterization. I think towards the latter half the characterization, especially Alan's, got a bit out of control u____u... I hope you guys don't find them too OOC though :p.
There were times when Alan felt absolutely sick of football. And now, looking at Roy who just entered the flat, still dressed in his crisp black suits, and compounded with the events of the past week, he felt the feeling come ashore again.
How could he not? This was not how he pictured he'd be doing, all those years ago when he signed on the dotted line with Sir Alex watching. It was a huge step in his career, from relegated Leeds to the mighty Manchester United. This was it, he'd thought. This was his ticket to further success. He'd never go down again.
He should've known though, that there was another side of football. For every player who achieved the professional status, how many more had their life in the edge of jeopardy because no club was interested to sign them? For every player that got the chance to go to bigger club, to a sparklier world, how many more had to move to the lesser ones and fade into obscurity?
Alan had never thought about it before. He was young, and all he could see was the tantalising promises of success, somewhere in front of him. And if he worked hard enough, diligent enough, somehow he'd achieve it.
Should he be bitter that he had to experience that long injury, nursing his broken foot while his team mates fought it out in the field, encased in glory even if they lost? He wasn't bitter that time. No, he still believed, with every fitness progress he had, with every encouraging words his team mates given him, that when he recovered, he'd be able to fight for his place again and eventually reclaimed it.
It was until one afternoon, as the Gaffer called him to his office and with sad, sad eyes told him that they might have to let him go - that was when the first crack was made. He said no, he didn't want to go, and the Gaffer relented, but there was only so many times he could refuse and it was only so long that the Gaffer could relent until he had to acknowledge the reality and told the Gaffer, if that was what was best for him ...
Sir Alex had looked at him with such a fatherly stare that made him almost crumble right there, and there were words, sweet and encouraging and wistful, scattered with “if only... if only, lad... “ but in the end, even Sir Alex said that passion alone couldn't keep him in the Theatre of Dreams.
If he was broken hearted, he failed so bad in covering it. Big Sam had said when he first came to the training ground (new and foreign and not really the place he wanted to be) that it wasn't that bad. That, just see, this was a new Newcastle side, that they'd make a difference and who knew, who knew...
But it never came. The time, the dream, it never came.
His father had said, at least he was still comfortable there. At least the pay was good. At least he kept playing, match after match, because wasn't that what he had always wanted? A regular first team appearances.
But it wasn't enough. It wasn't enough when the team barely got any result at all. When their own fans looked at them in despair, in disdain, looking for the dream that they had invest their hard earned money in. And he felt sorry for them, he really did.
But he himself was in the same boat. Before, even though his childhood team was stranded in whatever division they were now, at least he himself still achieving things with United. Now, Newcastle was a hairbreadth away from the relegation zone.
And when he was in a shit mood like this, Roy was a constant reminder of what he could have been. Of what he should have been. A hugely successful and brilliant player, a legend in his own right, and an enigmatic young manager who managed to take his team from the bottom of Division One to become the champion of it. And even if he was in his questionable moments, the fans still love him, almost unconditionally. Roy was everything he should be, and everything that he failed to be.
Alan often wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all. He trained as much as Cristiano, as committed as Wayne, as hardworking as any single Manchester United player there was, but why, why , why. There was such thing as a God-given talent, boy, his Da told him, but he thought, shouldn't everyone at the beginning be put in the same starting line?
It was unfair, but then again, the world was anything but fair. In the coldness of reality, he knew that only a child thought the world should be fair. And Alan was not a child. He had stopped being one a long time ago.
He looked down from his place in the balcony, leaning on the railing and feeling the cold late winter wind against his skin. He hadn't been really welcoming to Roy today, but he knew that Roy would understand the mood he was in. He felt bad, especially because he knew the hassle that Roy had to go through to be with him here (another reason why he wished he was still in Manchester. Sunderland was closer to Manchester, and it was easier for Roy to make excuses to go to Manchester than to Newcastle), but he couldn't help it. Last weekend defeat still left a bitter taste in his mouth.
“What's in your mind?” Roy asked from the doorway leading to the balcony. Alan could just picture him leaning on the door frame, his suit jacket off, his tie loosened, a small frown between his brows.
What was in his mind? Alan didn't really know. Everything and nothing. Nothing and everything. Really. Emotion and thoughts, rational and irrational, depressed and almost a bit hopeful, everything, meshing in his mind. He looked down, though, at the street below, and people on pavement, at the cars and the buses, and it felt so far down, and he imagined falling. Not in literal sense, not really in a committing suicide kind of falling, but.. he could just see, himself, almost, nearly tumbling downwards... or had he already started falling?
“Nothing,” he said. “It's just... stuffs, and .. I just...,” God but he was stumbling with his words. He stopped himself and in the end, he heaved a long sigh, his shoulders sagging, almost in defeat, and he said quietly, “I don't want to fall ...”
He stiffened himself, waiting for the scorn that was sure to come from the older man. If there was anything Roy Keane hated the most, it was fear and cowardice. Because Roy Keane never cowered from anything. Never cowered from any challenge that life had thrown his way and Alan knew he expected him to be that way.
None was coming though. But he could feel Roy's stare at the back of his neck, like a burning sensation. And he heard him then, his voice low and calm.
“Hang on to me, then.”
Alan whirled around then, surprised painted on his face, his eyes widened. His mouth opened but no words came out for a short while. The surprise in his eyes melted into wariness, and finally he asked, “what's the catch?”
He could've kicked himself for that. Here was Roy, giving him a reaction that he wanted instead of the one he feared, but he just have to ruin it by being distrustful. But the words had already hang in the air, and he had no way to take them back.
“Work your ass off,” the older man replied. “The things I ranted about in my last outburst in MUTV - don't give me a chance to say those to you again.”
And wasn't that Roy Keane in a nutshell. Roy loved team mates who put a lot of effort, who believe in themselves, who bounced back quickly from any drawback. That was why he respected Eric. That was why he would always have soft spot for Scholesy, Gary and Giggsy. If Alan didn't put in enough effort, enough grit, Roy would only look at him in disdain. However, if he could be what Roy expected him to be, then he would not let go of his hand. Roy would not let him fall.
Alan sniffed haughtily. “What if you yourself fall?”
“I won't,” he said, with a sort of conviction that made Alan always wonder where it came from.
“You're damn well an inch away from being relegated. Don't think you'll be in the Premier League next season.”
Alan knew he was being unfair. This was not the kind of fall that he'd been talking about. But he hated that he was so weak and Roy was so strong, so self assured, despite the situation his club was in.
But it looked like Roy could read him effortlessly (this was why Alan was never good at poker) and he said, “that's not what you were talking about earlier. And even if Sunderland got relegated, it's not as bad as it sounds. I learn something this season, managing a premiership club, and it will only benefit me in the future. Relegation is not my fear. It won't be my fall.”
It would be so easy for Alan to hate the older man now. But his words, they were pure self belief, they weren't arrogance. Alan hated and envied and respected him for that. “What is it then? What do you fear?”
Roy looked at him, and after a moment, he smiled, shrugging his shoulders. He didn't say anything though. Instead, he turned around to walk into the room. “Come on in,” he said over his shoulder. “It's cold outside.”
Alan stayed where he was, watching as the other man took a glass and poured whisky inside. He wanted to let go of this conversation, to just go in and share the warmth and not waste any more precious time talking over this. But he just couldn't help one last shot. “What if I fall?”
Roy looked up at him from his whisky, his eyes suddenly tired, older, making Alan felt like a youngster in the training ground about to get chided by the gaffer. 'It's your life, Al. You make the call. You'll fall only if you let yourself fall.”
“You're not going to prevent it?”
“I'm only going to support your effort, not baby sitting you. I won't spend my time holding your hand.”
He sat on the sofa then, his back facing the balcony where Alan was still standing, and just like that, the conversation was over. There was one huge full stop hanging in the air, and Alan, with Roy's final words, realised, again, that the older man won't be to him what Cristiano and Wayne were to each other. There wouldn't be any sweet nothings, he wouldn't dress his wound or wipe his tears away. They wouldn't even be like Ole and Paul, with their unnerving understanding of each other and that certain kind of quiet intimacy. Or like Rio and Vida, or Ryan and Gary.
He wondered, for the first time, whether this was allright. Before, it was only physical. But Alan had gotten emotionally attached too with the older man, and now, for the first time, he wondered.
Later though, after the whisky warmed their belly and Alan was on his back on the bed with Roy sinking deep into him, his touches rough but in a strange way comforting, Alan realised that this was what he needed. This was what he needed, someone to pushed him forward, to pull him up, to stand behind him so that he wouldn't back down from a challenge. And someone who would keep challenging him, baiting him when he felt like surrendering.
And as Roy put his arm around Alan's waist in a quiet afterglow, letting him snuggled up to him, Alan knew that this would be his reward. Roy's smile, his embrace, his respect, and his hand that would not let go of Alan's.
And as he drifted off to sleep, basking in the sated feeling of afterglow and engulfed in the scent that what distinctly Roy's, he promised himself that he'd give Roy no reason to let go of his hand.
~f i n~
Author : hiro_chan
Rating : R for some sexual references.
Pairing : Roy Keane / Alan Smith
Disclaimer : Absolutely, definitely, totally untrue.
Author's Note :
1. This is a long time coming, actually. esther_91 has been brainwashing me for so long about Roy/Alan and put a gun on my head and told me to write one. And it has taken me just as long to get this done mainly because i can't quite grasp their characterizations :(. However, I hope it is to your liking, babe ;).
For convenience sake (or is it just because I'm too lazy?? haha) this is also for bird_or_devil who asked for a Keano fic in exchange for more Ole/Paul porn (you still remember that, right?? RIGHT XD??). I hope it's Keano enough for you but if it isn't, let me know ;p.
2. Like I said, am struggling with the characterization. I think towards the latter half the characterization, especially Alan's, got a bit out of control u____u... I hope you guys don't find them too OOC though :p.
There were times when Alan felt absolutely sick of football. And now, looking at Roy who just entered the flat, still dressed in his crisp black suits, and compounded with the events of the past week, he felt the feeling come ashore again.
How could he not? This was not how he pictured he'd be doing, all those years ago when he signed on the dotted line with Sir Alex watching. It was a huge step in his career, from relegated Leeds to the mighty Manchester United. This was it, he'd thought. This was his ticket to further success. He'd never go down again.
He should've known though, that there was another side of football. For every player who achieved the professional status, how many more had their life in the edge of jeopardy because no club was interested to sign them? For every player that got the chance to go to bigger club, to a sparklier world, how many more had to move to the lesser ones and fade into obscurity?
Alan had never thought about it before. He was young, and all he could see was the tantalising promises of success, somewhere in front of him. And if he worked hard enough, diligent enough, somehow he'd achieve it.
Should he be bitter that he had to experience that long injury, nursing his broken foot while his team mates fought it out in the field, encased in glory even if they lost? He wasn't bitter that time. No, he still believed, with every fitness progress he had, with every encouraging words his team mates given him, that when he recovered, he'd be able to fight for his place again and eventually reclaimed it.
It was until one afternoon, as the Gaffer called him to his office and with sad, sad eyes told him that they might have to let him go - that was when the first crack was made. He said no, he didn't want to go, and the Gaffer relented, but there was only so many times he could refuse and it was only so long that the Gaffer could relent until he had to acknowledge the reality and told the Gaffer, if that was what was best for him ...
Sir Alex had looked at him with such a fatherly stare that made him almost crumble right there, and there were words, sweet and encouraging and wistful, scattered with “if only... if only, lad... “ but in the end, even Sir Alex said that passion alone couldn't keep him in the Theatre of Dreams.
If he was broken hearted, he failed so bad in covering it. Big Sam had said when he first came to the training ground (new and foreign and not really the place he wanted to be) that it wasn't that bad. That, just see, this was a new Newcastle side, that they'd make a difference and who knew, who knew...
But it never came. The time, the dream, it never came.
His father had said, at least he was still comfortable there. At least the pay was good. At least he kept playing, match after match, because wasn't that what he had always wanted? A regular first team appearances.
But it wasn't enough. It wasn't enough when the team barely got any result at all. When their own fans looked at them in despair, in disdain, looking for the dream that they had invest their hard earned money in. And he felt sorry for them, he really did.
But he himself was in the same boat. Before, even though his childhood team was stranded in whatever division they were now, at least he himself still achieving things with United. Now, Newcastle was a hairbreadth away from the relegation zone.
And when he was in a shit mood like this, Roy was a constant reminder of what he could have been. Of what he should have been. A hugely successful and brilliant player, a legend in his own right, and an enigmatic young manager who managed to take his team from the bottom of Division One to become the champion of it. And even if he was in his questionable moments, the fans still love him, almost unconditionally. Roy was everything he should be, and everything that he failed to be.
Alan often wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all. He trained as much as Cristiano, as committed as Wayne, as hardworking as any single Manchester United player there was, but why, why , why. There was such thing as a God-given talent, boy, his Da told him, but he thought, shouldn't everyone at the beginning be put in the same starting line?
It was unfair, but then again, the world was anything but fair. In the coldness of reality, he knew that only a child thought the world should be fair. And Alan was not a child. He had stopped being one a long time ago.
He looked down from his place in the balcony, leaning on the railing and feeling the cold late winter wind against his skin. He hadn't been really welcoming to Roy today, but he knew that Roy would understand the mood he was in. He felt bad, especially because he knew the hassle that Roy had to go through to be with him here (another reason why he wished he was still in Manchester. Sunderland was closer to Manchester, and it was easier for Roy to make excuses to go to Manchester than to Newcastle), but he couldn't help it. Last weekend defeat still left a bitter taste in his mouth.
“What's in your mind?” Roy asked from the doorway leading to the balcony. Alan could just picture him leaning on the door frame, his suit jacket off, his tie loosened, a small frown between his brows.
What was in his mind? Alan didn't really know. Everything and nothing. Nothing and everything. Really. Emotion and thoughts, rational and irrational, depressed and almost a bit hopeful, everything, meshing in his mind. He looked down, though, at the street below, and people on pavement, at the cars and the buses, and it felt so far down, and he imagined falling. Not in literal sense, not really in a committing suicide kind of falling, but.. he could just see, himself, almost, nearly tumbling downwards... or had he already started falling?
“Nothing,” he said. “It's just... stuffs, and .. I just...,” God but he was stumbling with his words. He stopped himself and in the end, he heaved a long sigh, his shoulders sagging, almost in defeat, and he said quietly, “I don't want to fall ...”
He stiffened himself, waiting for the scorn that was sure to come from the older man. If there was anything Roy Keane hated the most, it was fear and cowardice. Because Roy Keane never cowered from anything. Never cowered from any challenge that life had thrown his way and Alan knew he expected him to be that way.
None was coming though. But he could feel Roy's stare at the back of his neck, like a burning sensation. And he heard him then, his voice low and calm.
“Hang on to me, then.”
Alan whirled around then, surprised painted on his face, his eyes widened. His mouth opened but no words came out for a short while. The surprise in his eyes melted into wariness, and finally he asked, “what's the catch?”
He could've kicked himself for that. Here was Roy, giving him a reaction that he wanted instead of the one he feared, but he just have to ruin it by being distrustful. But the words had already hang in the air, and he had no way to take them back.
“Work your ass off,” the older man replied. “The things I ranted about in my last outburst in MUTV - don't give me a chance to say those to you again.”
And wasn't that Roy Keane in a nutshell. Roy loved team mates who put a lot of effort, who believe in themselves, who bounced back quickly from any drawback. That was why he respected Eric. That was why he would always have soft spot for Scholesy, Gary and Giggsy. If Alan didn't put in enough effort, enough grit, Roy would only look at him in disdain. However, if he could be what Roy expected him to be, then he would not let go of his hand. Roy would not let him fall.
Alan sniffed haughtily. “What if you yourself fall?”
“I won't,” he said, with a sort of conviction that made Alan always wonder where it came from.
“You're damn well an inch away from being relegated. Don't think you'll be in the Premier League next season.”
Alan knew he was being unfair. This was not the kind of fall that he'd been talking about. But he hated that he was so weak and Roy was so strong, so self assured, despite the situation his club was in.
But it looked like Roy could read him effortlessly (this was why Alan was never good at poker) and he said, “that's not what you were talking about earlier. And even if Sunderland got relegated, it's not as bad as it sounds. I learn something this season, managing a premiership club, and it will only benefit me in the future. Relegation is not my fear. It won't be my fall.”
It would be so easy for Alan to hate the older man now. But his words, they were pure self belief, they weren't arrogance. Alan hated and envied and respected him for that. “What is it then? What do you fear?”
Roy looked at him, and after a moment, he smiled, shrugging his shoulders. He didn't say anything though. Instead, he turned around to walk into the room. “Come on in,” he said over his shoulder. “It's cold outside.”
Alan stayed where he was, watching as the other man took a glass and poured whisky inside. He wanted to let go of this conversation, to just go in and share the warmth and not waste any more precious time talking over this. But he just couldn't help one last shot. “What if I fall?”
Roy looked up at him from his whisky, his eyes suddenly tired, older, making Alan felt like a youngster in the training ground about to get chided by the gaffer. 'It's your life, Al. You make the call. You'll fall only if you let yourself fall.”
“You're not going to prevent it?”
“I'm only going to support your effort, not baby sitting you. I won't spend my time holding your hand.”
He sat on the sofa then, his back facing the balcony where Alan was still standing, and just like that, the conversation was over. There was one huge full stop hanging in the air, and Alan, with Roy's final words, realised, again, that the older man won't be to him what Cristiano and Wayne were to each other. There wouldn't be any sweet nothings, he wouldn't dress his wound or wipe his tears away. They wouldn't even be like Ole and Paul, with their unnerving understanding of each other and that certain kind of quiet intimacy. Or like Rio and Vida, or Ryan and Gary.
He wondered, for the first time, whether this was allright. Before, it was only physical. But Alan had gotten emotionally attached too with the older man, and now, for the first time, he wondered.
Later though, after the whisky warmed their belly and Alan was on his back on the bed with Roy sinking deep into him, his touches rough but in a strange way comforting, Alan realised that this was what he needed. This was what he needed, someone to pushed him forward, to pull him up, to stand behind him so that he wouldn't back down from a challenge. And someone who would keep challenging him, baiting him when he felt like surrendering.
And as Roy put his arm around Alan's waist in a quiet afterglow, letting him snuggled up to him, Alan knew that this would be his reward. Roy's smile, his embrace, his respect, and his hand that would not let go of Alan's.
And as he drifted off to sleep, basking in the sated feeling of afterglow and engulfed in the scent that what distinctly Roy's, he promised himself that he'd give Roy no reason to let go of his hand.
~f i n~