[Fic] Those First Times ... : 4. Reciprocation (Ole Gunnar Solskjaer / Paul Scholes)
Title : Those First Times ... Chapter 4. Reciprocation (4/?)
Author : hiro_chan
Pairing : Ole Gunnar Solskjaer / Paul Scholes
Rating : PG
Disclaimer : Totally not true. FICTION.
Author's Notes :
1. As always, this series is for Trisha. Haven't talked to you for quite a while now, but hope you still read this - this one's started because you requested it ;).
2. This chapter's also for those who keep on reading the series, even though I'm such a slow and moody writer. Thanks for the putting up with me, guys, you are all kinds of love, really :).
3. Notes on what happens in this chapter is by the end of it.
Chapter 1. Meeting
Chapter 2. Attraction
Chapter 3. Confession
4. Reciprocation
(Time Line : Mid 1997)
He was crying again, quietly, quietly, in the empty dressing room.
The other lads had gone home earlier, he stayed back saying he still want to practice his shooting, and none of them said anything because they understood that he needed this. The Gaffer stayed around just a bit longer, but then patted his back in a fatherly way and said, “don't force yourself too hard,” before leaving him alone. Paul was sure that the security would be informed that he was still here, so they wouldn't lock the door.
And Paul shot and shot and shot, until the sun moved westward and his legs muscles felt strained and his lungs burned and they hurt but at least it was the sort of pain that he could handle. That he preferred. But not even football could give him distraction this time, and just like it always was in the past week, the tightness in his chest returned and his eyes blurred. He blinked the tears away, willed himself to not cry this time, because it had been too long and he was tired of this despair and needed to move on, but when he picked himself up for another round of shooting, his legs protested.
So instead of walking towards the ball, he turned towards the changing room, picking his towel on the way there, leaving the balls scattered on the ground behind him - he felt guilty but surely the guy who'd end up tidying up after him would understand. Whatever.
The changing room was empty, the way he found it to be lately. He threw his towel onto the bench, followed by the cleats and the socks and the shin guards, grabbing the soft, clean towel on the shelves and walked towards the shower.
His shower was brief, only doing the necessary, not lingering like he often liked to do before this. He turned off the water as he felt his throat constrict, as his heart thump thump thumping against his ribcage, loudly, and he fought to keep it under control, to not let the myriad of emotions break free.
He dressed quickly, his eyes unseeing, and he did just fine until he sat on the bench and leant down to tie his trainers lace. Suddenly, for no reason at all (or perhaps it was the ache in his chest that caused this), the image of Claire came to his mind, her expression brave, telling him last night that they should move on, that the baby would be sad to see them like this, that she wouldn't cry again now, she promised - but he couldn't help noticing her hand which would unconsciously rest on her stomach time and again, rubbing gently, as if their baby was still there.
Paul couldn't cry in front of her - he had to be strong and he would wrap his arms around her and letting her cry against his shoulder, shouldering her grief also because she needed it, because he was afraid she'd break if she didn't.
And when he was alone, in this dressing room or in his car, he'd cry, letting his sadness washed over the hard, silent objects around him. He cried until he couldn't cry anymore, and thought this was it, the last of his grief, that he'd fare better tomorrow. But tomorrow hadn't come so far.
Because it was just so hard. He wanted the baby, they had been so ecstatic when the news of her pregnancy came, had done everything to make sure it'd be a healthy pregnancy, but somehow they lost the baby. It was a kind of sickness common in pregnancy, the doctor told them gravely, and Paul just couldn't make any sense out of it.
The door opened with a quiet click, but Paul didn't care, burying his face against the towel that he held in his hands. He willed the person to fuck off, to leave him alone, but there were footsteps that came closer, and then a warm hand on his shoulder.
“Is there anything I can do to make it better?”
Paul should've known that it would be Ole. Should've known that if anyone would come after him, it would be Ole. Paul didn't know what to feel about that. In a way it made him somewhat glad - if it could be said as such - but it also made him feel apprehensive because he wasn't ready to confront all the feelings that made themselves known when he was with Ole.
He shook his head in response to the Norwegian's question, not even raising his face. He heard the older man sighed, and he felt him sitting beside him, their shoulders touching.
“Talk to me, Paul.”
He shook his head. “I don't know what to say,” he whispered, voice hoarse from crying.
“Share your grief with me. Come on, talk to me.”
“It's not - it's not yours to bear.”
“I want to. “
“Like hell you want to,” Paul snapped, finally raising his head to glare at the other man, his eyes red-rimmed, wet with tears. “No one wants grief, especially not this kind.”
Ole reared back, startled, but he caught himself in time, and he put his hand on Paul's cheek, preventing him from hiding away again. “Of course I don't want the grief, but I want -- I just want you to feel better. I keep seeing you crying alone lately and it kills me. Talk to me, Paul, let me in.”
Perhaps it was the sincerity in his words, or the compassion in his eyes, somehow Paul felt his resistance melting. Maybe this was what he was waiting for. All the time he cried alone, maybe he was waiting to be found, to be saved, because he couldn't save himself from this grief.
The tears started to fall again, but he couldn't hide, Ole's hand was warm and firm on his cheek, and he closed his eyes, willing the wall of resistance to go away, and his own hand clutch at Ole's wrist, tightly, tightly.
Ole pulled him into his arm then, Paul's head resting against his shoulder and Paul felt embarrassed and needy, but at the same time, he felt relieved. Ole's arms were steady around him, his smell comforting him, the uttered shooting words telling him it was safe, and Paul found it was easier to cry - and he cried and he cried and he cried, trying to get rid of the lump that stuck in his heart, trying to flush his sadness away.
And when he stopped, Ole asked him whether he felt better, his hands moving in comforting circles on his back, and Paul nodded. He had came to the point where he couldn't cry anymore now, his eyes hurt and he felt tired, but unlike before, there was a strange sense of lightness in his chest, as if a part of the lump there had been thrown away.
“I'm sorry - your shirt, I .. made it wet,” he finished lamely, gesturing to the wet patch of Ole's shirt.
“Don't worry about it. I'm glad I can help a little.”
Something in the way Ole said it, the utter truthfulness and sincerity of his words - of him - somehow it opened Paul's mind, reminding him of how much, all these time, Ole meant to him and how he always failed to acknowledge it properly. Ole had always been there, a constant presence in his days, the clear laughter and the gentle stares and the endless smiles and the comforting touches. Ole was special, and it was only now that he realised it.
“Can you drive home? Do you need a lift?”
“No,” Paul replied, giving him a grateful almost-there smile. “It's not necessary. But thanks for offering.”
He took his bag and straightened up, but when he looked up to look at Ole, he found that he didn't know what to say. Words deserted him and he fell into this awkward silence, where they just stared at each other, him wanting to say something and Ole expecting him to say something but nothing was spoken.
“Thank you,” he finally whispered, after a moment too long. “Thank you for coming and find me.”
“Don't mention it,” Ole replied gently. His hand reached up then and hold Paul's wrist and he said, “If you are sad or have problem, come to me, okay? Don't keep it to yourself. It won't automatically go away but it'll be easier then.”
“Yeah,” he nodded, a part of his mind wondering why Ole was so nice, so good to him but somewhere in his heart he knew, he knew, if only he had the braveness to confront his own feelings also. “Yeah, I will.”
They walked to the parking lot together, the afternoon breeze cool against their skin, signalling the arrival of autumn.
“I'll see you tomorrow then,” Ole smiled, leaning against his own car, watching Paul fussing with his.
“Yeah,” he agreed. And when he saw Ole about to go into the car, he couldn't help but call after him. Ole looked up, a mixture of curiosity and expectancy at him, and Paul knew it was now or never. Now, after all the things Ole had done for him; now, when his feelings, his emotions were so strong; now, because if he stepped back now, he wasn't sure he'd be able to come to this point again. He clutched the door frame tightly, willing the words to be spoken.
“When - when I get over this grief... when I'm okay again ... will your offer still stand?”
Ole, for his part, looked quite stunned at this, his eyes widened fractionally, before his expression smoothed up, the big smile blossoming on his face. Paul forced himself to not look away, steeling himself to whatever answer that Ole might say.
Will you still want me then?
The smile on Ole's face was real and true, and because of that, it was dazzling. He wanted to reach out to the younger man, but knew it wasn't time yet. What Paul needed right now was space and reassurance. And that was what Ole going to to give him. He had wait this long, he was patient enough to wait a bit more.
“The offer will always stand as long as I'm still around, Paul. And I will always be around.”
Later, when he looked back, Paul wouldn't be able to explain properly the warmth and the kind of relief that spread within him when he heard those words.
***
End Note :
Aaaand, yes, it's back to the angst :p. Just want to say, in case anybody wondering, that the miscariage did happen, eventhough I am honestly unclear of when it exactly happened. I read, quite a long time ago, that before they have Aaron-Jake, Claire had miscarriage and lost the baby. She mentioned how supportive Paul was during those hard time.
I know some of you might consider such a family/personal tragedy like this is unsuitable to be put in fic, but I just can't resist. No disrespect whatsoever is intended to Paul and his family by writing this one.
:).
Author : hiro_chan
Pairing : Ole Gunnar Solskjaer / Paul Scholes
Rating : PG
Disclaimer : Totally not true. FICTION.
Author's Notes :
1. As always, this series is for Trisha. Haven't talked to you for quite a while now, but hope you still read this - this one's started because you requested it ;).
2. This chapter's also for those who keep on reading the series, even though I'm such a slow and moody writer. Thanks for the putting up with me, guys, you are all kinds of love, really :).
3. Notes on what happens in this chapter is by the end of it.
Chapter 1. Meeting
Chapter 2. Attraction
Chapter 3. Confession
4. Reciprocation
(Time Line : Mid 1997)
He was crying again, quietly, quietly, in the empty dressing room.
The other lads had gone home earlier, he stayed back saying he still want to practice his shooting, and none of them said anything because they understood that he needed this. The Gaffer stayed around just a bit longer, but then patted his back in a fatherly way and said, “don't force yourself too hard,” before leaving him alone. Paul was sure that the security would be informed that he was still here, so they wouldn't lock the door.
And Paul shot and shot and shot, until the sun moved westward and his legs muscles felt strained and his lungs burned and they hurt but at least it was the sort of pain that he could handle. That he preferred. But not even football could give him distraction this time, and just like it always was in the past week, the tightness in his chest returned and his eyes blurred. He blinked the tears away, willed himself to not cry this time, because it had been too long and he was tired of this despair and needed to move on, but when he picked himself up for another round of shooting, his legs protested.
So instead of walking towards the ball, he turned towards the changing room, picking his towel on the way there, leaving the balls scattered on the ground behind him - he felt guilty but surely the guy who'd end up tidying up after him would understand. Whatever.
The changing room was empty, the way he found it to be lately. He threw his towel onto the bench, followed by the cleats and the socks and the shin guards, grabbing the soft, clean towel on the shelves and walked towards the shower.
His shower was brief, only doing the necessary, not lingering like he often liked to do before this. He turned off the water as he felt his throat constrict, as his heart thump thump thumping against his ribcage, loudly, and he fought to keep it under control, to not let the myriad of emotions break free.
He dressed quickly, his eyes unseeing, and he did just fine until he sat on the bench and leant down to tie his trainers lace. Suddenly, for no reason at all (or perhaps it was the ache in his chest that caused this), the image of Claire came to his mind, her expression brave, telling him last night that they should move on, that the baby would be sad to see them like this, that she wouldn't cry again now, she promised - but he couldn't help noticing her hand which would unconsciously rest on her stomach time and again, rubbing gently, as if their baby was still there.
Paul couldn't cry in front of her - he had to be strong and he would wrap his arms around her and letting her cry against his shoulder, shouldering her grief also because she needed it, because he was afraid she'd break if she didn't.
And when he was alone, in this dressing room or in his car, he'd cry, letting his sadness washed over the hard, silent objects around him. He cried until he couldn't cry anymore, and thought this was it, the last of his grief, that he'd fare better tomorrow. But tomorrow hadn't come so far.
Because it was just so hard. He wanted the baby, they had been so ecstatic when the news of her pregnancy came, had done everything to make sure it'd be a healthy pregnancy, but somehow they lost the baby. It was a kind of sickness common in pregnancy, the doctor told them gravely, and Paul just couldn't make any sense out of it.
The door opened with a quiet click, but Paul didn't care, burying his face against the towel that he held in his hands. He willed the person to fuck off, to leave him alone, but there were footsteps that came closer, and then a warm hand on his shoulder.
“Is there anything I can do to make it better?”
Paul should've known that it would be Ole. Should've known that if anyone would come after him, it would be Ole. Paul didn't know what to feel about that. In a way it made him somewhat glad - if it could be said as such - but it also made him feel apprehensive because he wasn't ready to confront all the feelings that made themselves known when he was with Ole.
He shook his head in response to the Norwegian's question, not even raising his face. He heard the older man sighed, and he felt him sitting beside him, their shoulders touching.
“Talk to me, Paul.”
He shook his head. “I don't know what to say,” he whispered, voice hoarse from crying.
“Share your grief with me. Come on, talk to me.”
“It's not - it's not yours to bear.”
“I want to. “
“Like hell you want to,” Paul snapped, finally raising his head to glare at the other man, his eyes red-rimmed, wet with tears. “No one wants grief, especially not this kind.”
Ole reared back, startled, but he caught himself in time, and he put his hand on Paul's cheek, preventing him from hiding away again. “Of course I don't want the grief, but I want -- I just want you to feel better. I keep seeing you crying alone lately and it kills me. Talk to me, Paul, let me in.”
Perhaps it was the sincerity in his words, or the compassion in his eyes, somehow Paul felt his resistance melting. Maybe this was what he was waiting for. All the time he cried alone, maybe he was waiting to be found, to be saved, because he couldn't save himself from this grief.
The tears started to fall again, but he couldn't hide, Ole's hand was warm and firm on his cheek, and he closed his eyes, willing the wall of resistance to go away, and his own hand clutch at Ole's wrist, tightly, tightly.
Ole pulled him into his arm then, Paul's head resting against his shoulder and Paul felt embarrassed and needy, but at the same time, he felt relieved. Ole's arms were steady around him, his smell comforting him, the uttered shooting words telling him it was safe, and Paul found it was easier to cry - and he cried and he cried and he cried, trying to get rid of the lump that stuck in his heart, trying to flush his sadness away.
And when he stopped, Ole asked him whether he felt better, his hands moving in comforting circles on his back, and Paul nodded. He had came to the point where he couldn't cry anymore now, his eyes hurt and he felt tired, but unlike before, there was a strange sense of lightness in his chest, as if a part of the lump there had been thrown away.
“I'm sorry - your shirt, I .. made it wet,” he finished lamely, gesturing to the wet patch of Ole's shirt.
“Don't worry about it. I'm glad I can help a little.”
Something in the way Ole said it, the utter truthfulness and sincerity of his words - of him - somehow it opened Paul's mind, reminding him of how much, all these time, Ole meant to him and how he always failed to acknowledge it properly. Ole had always been there, a constant presence in his days, the clear laughter and the gentle stares and the endless smiles and the comforting touches. Ole was special, and it was only now that he realised it.
“Can you drive home? Do you need a lift?”
“No,” Paul replied, giving him a grateful almost-there smile. “It's not necessary. But thanks for offering.”
He took his bag and straightened up, but when he looked up to look at Ole, he found that he didn't know what to say. Words deserted him and he fell into this awkward silence, where they just stared at each other, him wanting to say something and Ole expecting him to say something but nothing was spoken.
“Thank you,” he finally whispered, after a moment too long. “Thank you for coming and find me.”
“Don't mention it,” Ole replied gently. His hand reached up then and hold Paul's wrist and he said, “If you are sad or have problem, come to me, okay? Don't keep it to yourself. It won't automatically go away but it'll be easier then.”
“Yeah,” he nodded, a part of his mind wondering why Ole was so nice, so good to him but somewhere in his heart he knew, he knew, if only he had the braveness to confront his own feelings also. “Yeah, I will.”
They walked to the parking lot together, the afternoon breeze cool against their skin, signalling the arrival of autumn.
“I'll see you tomorrow then,” Ole smiled, leaning against his own car, watching Paul fussing with his.
“Yeah,” he agreed. And when he saw Ole about to go into the car, he couldn't help but call after him. Ole looked up, a mixture of curiosity and expectancy at him, and Paul knew it was now or never. Now, after all the things Ole had done for him; now, when his feelings, his emotions were so strong; now, because if he stepped back now, he wasn't sure he'd be able to come to this point again. He clutched the door frame tightly, willing the words to be spoken.
“When - when I get over this grief... when I'm okay again ... will your offer still stand?”
Ole, for his part, looked quite stunned at this, his eyes widened fractionally, before his expression smoothed up, the big smile blossoming on his face. Paul forced himself to not look away, steeling himself to whatever answer that Ole might say.
Will you still want me then?
The smile on Ole's face was real and true, and because of that, it was dazzling. He wanted to reach out to the younger man, but knew it wasn't time yet. What Paul needed right now was space and reassurance. And that was what Ole going to to give him. He had wait this long, he was patient enough to wait a bit more.
“The offer will always stand as long as I'm still around, Paul. And I will always be around.”
Later, when he looked back, Paul wouldn't be able to explain properly the warmth and the kind of relief that spread within him when he heard those words.
***
End Note :
Aaaand, yes, it's back to the angst :p. Just want to say, in case anybody wondering, that the miscariage did happen, eventhough I am honestly unclear of when it exactly happened. I read, quite a long time ago, that before they have Aaron-Jake, Claire had miscarriage and lost the baby. She mentioned how supportive Paul was during those hard time.
I know some of you might consider such a family/personal tragedy like this is unsuitable to be put in fic, but I just can't resist. No disrespect whatsoever is intended to Paul and his family by writing this one.
:).