mr jones and me tell eachother fairytales.
title: balance.
pairing: martin skrtel/fabio aurélio
word count: 549
rating: g
disclaimer: don't know them. don't own them. too bad.
summary: martin is hot and cold and loud and quiet. and fabio is his constancy.
author’s notes: thanks to Maria for encouragement, to
marzie_ for her truth as
a cow opinion (and for sticking with me for ALMOST one year :D) and to
nadi_wamos who is the best beta on earth.
Sometimes, Martin is cold.
When a striker advances, trespasses his borders, invades his territory, Martin is calm.
His heart is racing, pumping blood through his veins, but his legs are strong, obedient, not a muscle flinches when he tackles.
Sometimes, Martin is hot.
When he runs forward, out of the familiar safety of his own area. When he runs with the ball - runs, runs, runs.
And it’s not blood racing in his veins - it’s adrenaline.
His senses are sharp; he can feel the moist breath of the opposing player on the sensitive skin of his neck, sending a shiver down his spine.
He can smell the excitement and the anxiety from the stands; hears the shouts and songs.
His eyes search and find a team-mate: The pass is perfectly timed.
His mind is burning.
Fabio is warm.
He is the kind of warmth that gently strokes your skin and blows mild breezes to play with your hair, like early summer; almost sunny, almost hot, but not quite.
He is warm enough to melt the walls of ice that surround Martin, carefully bringing down the borders that Martin has built up through the years.
It’s a slow process and Martin doesn’t even notice until the ice is gone and he is exposed (but also freed).
It’s a pleasant warmth, but not torrid enough to light those treacherous fires around Martin, that are only waiting to blaze; to burn anyone who dares to step too close.
Martin doesn’t feel comfortable around people.
He can’t handle their loud voices, their intrusive behaviour. He doesn’t understand people’s moods and actions.
But, Martin hates being alone, too. The deafening silence strangles him; it wraps around his lungs, almost crushing them.
Fabio loosens that tight grip, allows Martin to breathe again before he tenderly soothes the deep marks the clasping claws of silence left on inked skin (that Martin never regarded as more than a means to an end; until Fabio’s fingers brushed over it and he discovered its real purpose).
Sometimes, Martin is early.
For doctor’s appointments and train departures. For his first day at Melwood, and all the days after that.
Sometimes he is late.
For dates with people he doesn’t care about. For taking steps in new directions. For waking up to the sound of portuguese whispers (but in the end he does).
Fabio is on time. Always.
For team-talks. For looking up from his hurting groin (and the instant awareness of shattered European dreams) to see the concerned face of a new team-mate (looking paler than usual against the floodlights, the dark sky and the red ocean that is the Kop).
For opening the door to a Slovak (and refusing to close it again).
“What am I to you?” Fabio asks. Martin closes his eyes when the Brazilian’s fingertips trace a gentle line over his cheek, along his jaw, down to his neck. It’s less than a caress, but more than a touch.
It’s just enough to make Martin be aware of it.
Just enough to make him feel.
And he knows the answer. It’s harder than kicking a ball, easier than solving maths problems back in high school.
Martin smiles.
The foreign word rolls off his tongue with more grace than he ever thought he could muster.
Balance.
pairing: martin skrtel/fabio aurélio
word count: 549
rating: g
disclaimer: don't know them. don't own them. too bad.
summary: martin is hot and cold and loud and quiet. and fabio is his constancy.
author’s notes: thanks to Maria for encouragement, to
marzie_ for her truth as
a cow opinion (and for sticking with me for ALMOST one year :D) and to
nadi_wamos who is the best beta on earth.
Sometimes, Martin is cold.
When a striker advances, trespasses his borders, invades his territory, Martin is calm.
His heart is racing, pumping blood through his veins, but his legs are strong, obedient, not a muscle flinches when he tackles.
Sometimes, Martin is hot.
When he runs forward, out of the familiar safety of his own area. When he runs with the ball - runs, runs, runs.
And it’s not blood racing in his veins - it’s adrenaline.
His senses are sharp; he can feel the moist breath of the opposing player on the sensitive skin of his neck, sending a shiver down his spine.
He can smell the excitement and the anxiety from the stands; hears the shouts and songs.
His eyes search and find a team-mate: The pass is perfectly timed.
His mind is burning.
Fabio is warm.
He is the kind of warmth that gently strokes your skin and blows mild breezes to play with your hair, like early summer; almost sunny, almost hot, but not quite.
He is warm enough to melt the walls of ice that surround Martin, carefully bringing down the borders that Martin has built up through the years.
It’s a slow process and Martin doesn’t even notice until the ice is gone and he is exposed (but also freed).
It’s a pleasant warmth, but not torrid enough to light those treacherous fires around Martin, that are only waiting to blaze; to burn anyone who dares to step too close.
Martin doesn’t feel comfortable around people.
He can’t handle their loud voices, their intrusive behaviour. He doesn’t understand people’s moods and actions.
But, Martin hates being alone, too. The deafening silence strangles him; it wraps around his lungs, almost crushing them.
Fabio loosens that tight grip, allows Martin to breathe again before he tenderly soothes the deep marks the clasping claws of silence left on inked skin (that Martin never regarded as more than a means to an end; until Fabio’s fingers brushed over it and he discovered its real purpose).
Sometimes, Martin is early.
For doctor’s appointments and train departures. For his first day at Melwood, and all the days after that.
Sometimes he is late.
For dates with people he doesn’t care about. For taking steps in new directions. For waking up to the sound of portuguese whispers (but in the end he does).
Fabio is on time. Always.
For team-talks. For looking up from his hurting groin (and the instant awareness of shattered European dreams) to see the concerned face of a new team-mate (looking paler than usual against the floodlights, the dark sky and the red ocean that is the Kop).
For opening the door to a Slovak (and refusing to close it again).
“What am I to you?” Fabio asks. Martin closes his eyes when the Brazilian’s fingertips trace a gentle line over his cheek, along his jaw, down to his neck. It’s less than a caress, but more than a touch.
It’s just enough to make Martin be aware of it.
Just enough to make him feel.
And he knows the answer. It’s harder than kicking a ball, easier than solving maths problems back in high school.
Martin smiles.
The foreign word rolls off his tongue with more grace than he ever thought he could muster.
Balance.