[Footballslash] Dealing With It (Light Vida/Carrick)
Okay, this just came out of nowhere after the annoying defeat at the Emirates yesterday. Apologies if this barely makes any sense.
Title : Dealing With It
Author : hiro_chan
Fandom : Football Slash
Pairing : Nemanja Vidic / Michael Carrick
Rating : PG
Warning : Unbetaed ^^;.
It is, in a way, interesting to discover new things about your teammates.
The team lost today (and what a fucking way to lose too, in the dying minute of the injury time) and granted this team has lost before, but this is different. This is huge. This is much more important.
Well, today, as you slouch on your seat in the couch that’s going to take the team back to the hotel, you kind of see how your teammates deal with losses like this.
Gaz is pretty much unapproachable. He sits alone just behind the driver, his eyes unseeing but burning with something like anger and guilt and self-loathing and you can just see the fire that engulfs his whole demeanor, daring anyone to come close and die.
Wayne and Cris sit sulking together, Cris cursing and muttering quietly in Portugese while Wayne sits restlessly, as if he could not stay still, as if his mind was still left back on the pitch, trapped in the match looking for that match-winning goal that never come.
Not far from you sit Scholesy, quietly, silently, his face hidden from view as he looks out of the window, looking so lonely in the middle of people boarding the team coach, looking as if there was a wall separating him from the rest of the team. And it actually unsettles you to see him like this, because he’s someone you look up to, because he’s been playing superbly all season and it actually escaped your mind until the game was over that it is possible for him to not be able to play well and having one of those days when you just cannot find the perfect passes and the perfect spaces to exploit.
And you… you feel empty inside, as you always did when your team loses, a strange feeling of being weightless and floating in empty spaces colored in grey (when you win, the spaces are colored in bright colors, red and green and yellow) and you hate grey, hate the feeling of hopelessness and uselessness and boredom and sadness and plain negativity that it ignites in you.
At least, you suppose you can take comfort that you’re doing something right in the game. The Gaffer greeted you at full time with a tight-lipped smile (“Great job, Mike”) and your midfield partner patted your back, muttering a thank you for covering his back most of the time.
A body slides onto the seat besides you, brushing shoulders and you glance sideways and find Vida there, his face set in quiet fury, the hard lines of his feature tightens. There is a few silent moments between you, not awkward but not comfortable either, with you wondering what you should say to him, whether you should console him that everybody made mistake, that at least he did well dealing with their attacks until the inevitable finally came, and you suddenly feel his hand resting gently on your thigh, palm up in invitation.
His hand is pale but wide and strong and hard, contrasting nicely with the dark and the softness of your pants, and you cover his hand in yours and he squeezes lightly, not too hard but firm enough. He still doesn’t look at you, he still looks furious and annoyed, but it is okay. It’s always okay.
Because that’s football, and tomorrow you’ll be back in the familiar ground of Carrington and today will be nothing but a memory that will give you a kick on your back when you need it.
You settle back into your seat, watching the buildings gliding past, hearing the smooth rumble of the coach’s machine beneath your feet mixed with Cris’ constant muttering in Portuguese; feeling Vida’s assured hand in yours and Scholesy’s silence and stillness and Wayne’s restlessness and Gary’s overflowing emotions and it’s great and it’s normal and it’s okay.
You’re still floating in grey - because it takes time to make it white again - but by the next weekend, you promise yourself with a certain kind of comfortable assurance that you’ll paint it with all the merry colors again.
~end~
Yeah, I guess I just have to make myself sure that the lads will be okay *hugs all the United lads*
Title : Dealing With It
Author : hiro_chan
Fandom : Football Slash
Pairing : Nemanja Vidic / Michael Carrick
Rating : PG
Warning : Unbetaed ^^;.
It is, in a way, interesting to discover new things about your teammates.
The team lost today (and what a fucking way to lose too, in the dying minute of the injury time) and granted this team has lost before, but this is different. This is huge. This is much more important.
Well, today, as you slouch on your seat in the couch that’s going to take the team back to the hotel, you kind of see how your teammates deal with losses like this.
Gaz is pretty much unapproachable. He sits alone just behind the driver, his eyes unseeing but burning with something like anger and guilt and self-loathing and you can just see the fire that engulfs his whole demeanor, daring anyone to come close and die.
Wayne and Cris sit sulking together, Cris cursing and muttering quietly in Portugese while Wayne sits restlessly, as if he could not stay still, as if his mind was still left back on the pitch, trapped in the match looking for that match-winning goal that never come.
Not far from you sit Scholesy, quietly, silently, his face hidden from view as he looks out of the window, looking so lonely in the middle of people boarding the team coach, looking as if there was a wall separating him from the rest of the team. And it actually unsettles you to see him like this, because he’s someone you look up to, because he’s been playing superbly all season and it actually escaped your mind until the game was over that it is possible for him to not be able to play well and having one of those days when you just cannot find the perfect passes and the perfect spaces to exploit.
And you… you feel empty inside, as you always did when your team loses, a strange feeling of being weightless and floating in empty spaces colored in grey (when you win, the spaces are colored in bright colors, red and green and yellow) and you hate grey, hate the feeling of hopelessness and uselessness and boredom and sadness and plain negativity that it ignites in you.
At least, you suppose you can take comfort that you’re doing something right in the game. The Gaffer greeted you at full time with a tight-lipped smile (“Great job, Mike”) and your midfield partner patted your back, muttering a thank you for covering his back most of the time.
A body slides onto the seat besides you, brushing shoulders and you glance sideways and find Vida there, his face set in quiet fury, the hard lines of his feature tightens. There is a few silent moments between you, not awkward but not comfortable either, with you wondering what you should say to him, whether you should console him that everybody made mistake, that at least he did well dealing with their attacks until the inevitable finally came, and you suddenly feel his hand resting gently on your thigh, palm up in invitation.
His hand is pale but wide and strong and hard, contrasting nicely with the dark and the softness of your pants, and you cover his hand in yours and he squeezes lightly, not too hard but firm enough. He still doesn’t look at you, he still looks furious and annoyed, but it is okay. It’s always okay.
Because that’s football, and tomorrow you’ll be back in the familiar ground of Carrington and today will be nothing but a memory that will give you a kick on your back when you need it.
You settle back into your seat, watching the buildings gliding past, hearing the smooth rumble of the coach’s machine beneath your feet mixed with Cris’ constant muttering in Portuguese; feeling Vida’s assured hand in yours and Scholesy’s silence and stillness and Wayne’s restlessness and Gary’s overflowing emotions and it’s great and it’s normal and it’s okay.
You’re still floating in grey - because it takes time to make it white again - but by the next weekend, you promise yourself with a certain kind of comfortable assurance that you’ll paint it with all the merry colors again.
~end~
Yeah, I guess I just have to make myself sure that the lads will be okay *hugs all the United lads*