escaping shores of lunacy - dawn light, twilight, infinity
title: be still
pairing: daniel agger/martin skrtel
word count: 1495
summary: Martin doesn't usually call. Except that he does, sometimes.
notes: set right after denmark's friendly against sweden. i haven't posted anything on here in forever, but this is basically my hiding place from transfer window anxiety and i figured i might aswell share it.
crossposted to ao3.
"u still up?"
He blinks at the screen a couple of times, the bright light of his display almost blinding against the soft darkness of the hotel room.
"yes" he types and his thumb hovers over the 'send' button. It sounds a little too eager. Needy. Expectant. And Daniel Agger is none of that. Not really. He rubs his chin, deletes it, types again.
"yeah." he sends. Better.
And it's not like he starts staring at the damn thing. And it's not like he puts it on mute because the fucking deafening noise of its silence is screaming in his head.
A millisecond later his phone is vibrating in his hand and he almost lets it drop (though he expected it to. Or maybe because he expected it to, and lately the things he anticipates never really come to be).
"Hey." he answers it and pushes himself up on the bed.
"Hey." Martin says. He is weirdly taken aback by the lack of background noises. Martin's late night calls usually come with background music and laughter and him practically screaming down the line to make himself heard (not always understood, though. Because sometimes it's an unintelligible babble and sometimes it's Slovak and sometimes it could be both or something else entirely). Actually they don't usually come with anything because Martin doesn't usually call. Except that he does, sometimes.
"Hold on." Daniel gets up quietly, glancing over to the other bed and Christian's silhouette, perfectly entangled in the sheets. With his free hand he fishes for the crumpled shirt beside his bed and clumsily pushes it over his head. He manages to only once stumble over his open suitcase as he crosses the room and slides open the balcony door. The cold of the night air hits him harder than expected but he shuts the door behind him anyway.
"Okay." he says down the phone and goes to sit on one of the plastic chairs that feels cold against his thighs.
"Can you speak now?"
"Yeah."
"Okay."
"Hi."
"Hi." Martin clears his throat. "So you're still with the team?"
"Yeah." Daniel shrugs and rubs at his forehead. "It's some team-building thing, I guess. Making the most of the occasional friendly. It's not like we're having an awful lot of games during the summer."
Martin chuckles. "I don't even know why anyone would want to play football in the fucking tropics anyway." It's quiet for a second and Daniel can hear him breathing. "So, I just wanted to congratulate you."
"On what?"
"Well, winning. And scoring."
"It was a penalty."
"Still."
"Thanks." he says awkwardly. From where he's sitting, he can see over the railing and down onto the lights of the city below. He bites at his thumbnail and imagines that it's nights like these that make people want to smoke a cigarette.
"Listen." Martin says suddenly and Daniel listens. But Martin stays silent.
"Are you okay?" he asks and frowns. Martin isn't much of a talker. But if he has something to say, you listen. Because it's important. And the way he furrows his brows is important. And the way the corners of mouth twitch whenever he is looking for the right words to say, that's important, too. And the way his hands signal the next move on the pitch or clasp around his arm to move the wall three inches to the left or how their eyes meet when he passes. Martin doesn't come with big gestures. So every little thing is important.
"Will you be there?" Martin asks. And Daniel doesn't have to ask where. Or when. He knows the question because it's the one his mind keeps rolling over again and again.
"I don't know." he says honestly. He has never lied to Martin and he wouldn't start now. The sheer thought of it seems absurd. "It's not really up to me."
"But if it were?" There is something swinging in his voice that Daniel can't quite put his finger on. And when the word insecurity crosses his mind, he dismisses it.
"I wouldn't leave" For some reason the sentence feels unfinished, lacking something. A little thing. And every little thing is important. "I wouldn't leave the club." he specifies unnecessarily (but it doesn't feel any closer to what he means to say). It's not a lie either.
"You would be missed." Martin says quietly. He doesn't say by the club or by the fans. Martin always chooses his words carefully. And he carefully chooses the ones he doesn't say. In a way, Martin's silences are braver than anything Daniel has ever inked under his skin.
"Yeah." he says weakly. I would miss you, too, you know. Your stupid bald head. And your stupid shit-eating grin. And your stupid fucking hand brushing over my hair and our sweaty foreheads touching when we score. "I'm sorry."
"For what?" There is a rustle in the background and only now Daniel pictures Martin lying on his bed in the dark, staring up at the ceiling and listening to his voice. He closes his eyes and feels the phantom touch of skin under his finger tips.
For not training hard enough. For not playing well enough. For not being good enough to stay. With you. His fingers trace an invisible pattern in the air and he is not even surprised when he realizes that he knows Martin's tattoos by heart.
"I want to stay so badly." he whispers and means it so much it makes his throat hurt.
"Just come back" Martin's voice lingers and Daniel knows he is only a gentle movement of lips away from adding to me. He doesn't. And Daniel understands. He rubs his hand over his arm, where the chill of the night has formed goosebumps on his skin. His eyes burn with fatigue (and maybe something else).
"Listen." he starts. I would do anything, I swear. "I love this club." he says. Somehow it feels easier to give your heart to a team and a stadium and a wall of people dressed in red than to a single person.
"Good." Martin says and his voice sounds a little lighter. "Saves me the trouble of hauling your ass back here myself."
"So convince me or kidnap me? That's your plan?" Daniel feels his lips twitching into a grin.
"You're hardly a kid though."
Daniel catches his reflection in the window glass and when his eyes stare back at him darker than usual and his freckles stand out against the pale skin, for a second he sees the face of someone they would always call The Kid. (And he remembers a conversation he had years ago that wasn't too different from this one, except that it was.) But it's just his face and the small wrinkles in the corners of his eyes that he is yet to get used to.
"Figure you could top off your look with an abduction lawsuit?" he jokes half-heartedly.
"Says the little punk who tattoos his calves for lack of empty space on his body." Martin shoots back drily.
"Have you been following me on twitter?" he tucks at the hem of his shirt and bites back a smile.
"You think I looked up your skinny legs on google?" Martin spits and Daniel can fucking hear him grin through the words.
"My skinny legs will kick your ass, thank you very much." He retorts lamely, but it makes Martin laugh, so it's worth something.
"You think I'll be vice captain once you've buggered off?"
"Like fuck you will."
"Now that would really top off my look."
"If nothing else, I'd come back just to snatch that fucking armband from you." His threat is undermined by the yawn he hardly manages to stifle.
"Good." Martin says, almost gently. "You should get some sleep."
"Yeah." he agrees reluctantly. "So, thanks for calling."
"Yeah, no problem." Daniel hears another rustle and imagines Martin pulling the covers over his shoulders. "Danny?"
He stiffens. Because he can hear it, even feel it in his voice when he says his name and it's almost overwhelming. And if he goes to say it now, while he's lying on his bed in the safety of the dark and Daniel is sitting above the stillness of a sleeping city, outside the anonymity of a hotel room, then he would probably say it back. And they could just go from there. From whatever that meant.
"If you even think of leaving, I swear to God, Agger, I will break you fucking legs." Close enough. "I'll see you at training."
"You will." Daniel says and only later, after ending the call and slipping back into the warmth of the hotel room and into the comfort of his bed (and painfully feeling his limbs coming back to life), when he closes his eyes and almost drifts back to sleep, does he realize that it is a promise. Because he has never lied to Martin. And he wouldn't start now.
pairing: daniel agger/martin skrtel
word count: 1495
summary: Martin doesn't usually call. Except that he does, sometimes.
notes: set right after denmark's friendly against sweden. i haven't posted anything on here in forever, but this is basically my hiding place from transfer window anxiety and i figured i might aswell share it.
crossposted to ao3.
"u still up?"
He blinks at the screen a couple of times, the bright light of his display almost blinding against the soft darkness of the hotel room.
"yes" he types and his thumb hovers over the 'send' button. It sounds a little too eager. Needy. Expectant. And Daniel Agger is none of that. Not really. He rubs his chin, deletes it, types again.
"yeah." he sends. Better.
And it's not like he starts staring at the damn thing. And it's not like he puts it on mute because the fucking deafening noise of its silence is screaming in his head.
A millisecond later his phone is vibrating in his hand and he almost lets it drop (though he expected it to. Or maybe because he expected it to, and lately the things he anticipates never really come to be).
"Hey." he answers it and pushes himself up on the bed.
"Hey." Martin says. He is weirdly taken aback by the lack of background noises. Martin's late night calls usually come with background music and laughter and him practically screaming down the line to make himself heard (not always understood, though. Because sometimes it's an unintelligible babble and sometimes it's Slovak and sometimes it could be both or something else entirely). Actually they don't usually come with anything because Martin doesn't usually call. Except that he does, sometimes.
"Hold on." Daniel gets up quietly, glancing over to the other bed and Christian's silhouette, perfectly entangled in the sheets. With his free hand he fishes for the crumpled shirt beside his bed and clumsily pushes it over his head. He manages to only once stumble over his open suitcase as he crosses the room and slides open the balcony door. The cold of the night air hits him harder than expected but he shuts the door behind him anyway.
"Okay." he says down the phone and goes to sit on one of the plastic chairs that feels cold against his thighs.
"Can you speak now?"
"Yeah."
"Okay."
"Hi."
"Hi." Martin clears his throat. "So you're still with the team?"
"Yeah." Daniel shrugs and rubs at his forehead. "It's some team-building thing, I guess. Making the most of the occasional friendly. It's not like we're having an awful lot of games during the summer."
Martin chuckles. "I don't even know why anyone would want to play football in the fucking tropics anyway." It's quiet for a second and Daniel can hear him breathing. "So, I just wanted to congratulate you."
"On what?"
"Well, winning. And scoring."
"It was a penalty."
"Still."
"Thanks." he says awkwardly. From where he's sitting, he can see over the railing and down onto the lights of the city below. He bites at his thumbnail and imagines that it's nights like these that make people want to smoke a cigarette.
"Listen." Martin says suddenly and Daniel listens. But Martin stays silent.
"Are you okay?" he asks and frowns. Martin isn't much of a talker. But if he has something to say, you listen. Because it's important. And the way he furrows his brows is important. And the way the corners of mouth twitch whenever he is looking for the right words to say, that's important, too. And the way his hands signal the next move on the pitch or clasp around his arm to move the wall three inches to the left or how their eyes meet when he passes. Martin doesn't come with big gestures. So every little thing is important.
"Will you be there?" Martin asks. And Daniel doesn't have to ask where. Or when. He knows the question because it's the one his mind keeps rolling over again and again.
"I don't know." he says honestly. He has never lied to Martin and he wouldn't start now. The sheer thought of it seems absurd. "It's not really up to me."
"But if it were?" There is something swinging in his voice that Daniel can't quite put his finger on. And when the word insecurity crosses his mind, he dismisses it.
"I wouldn't leave" For some reason the sentence feels unfinished, lacking something. A little thing. And every little thing is important. "I wouldn't leave the club." he specifies unnecessarily (but it doesn't feel any closer to what he means to say). It's not a lie either.
"You would be missed." Martin says quietly. He doesn't say by the club or by the fans. Martin always chooses his words carefully. And he carefully chooses the ones he doesn't say. In a way, Martin's silences are braver than anything Daniel has ever inked under his skin.
"Yeah." he says weakly. I would miss you, too, you know. Your stupid bald head. And your stupid shit-eating grin. And your stupid fucking hand brushing over my hair and our sweaty foreheads touching when we score. "I'm sorry."
"For what?" There is a rustle in the background and only now Daniel pictures Martin lying on his bed in the dark, staring up at the ceiling and listening to his voice. He closes his eyes and feels the phantom touch of skin under his finger tips.
For not training hard enough. For not playing well enough. For not being good enough to stay. With you. His fingers trace an invisible pattern in the air and he is not even surprised when he realizes that he knows Martin's tattoos by heart.
"I want to stay so badly." he whispers and means it so much it makes his throat hurt.
"Just come back" Martin's voice lingers and Daniel knows he is only a gentle movement of lips away from adding to me. He doesn't. And Daniel understands. He rubs his hand over his arm, where the chill of the night has formed goosebumps on his skin. His eyes burn with fatigue (and maybe something else).
"Listen." he starts. I would do anything, I swear. "I love this club." he says. Somehow it feels easier to give your heart to a team and a stadium and a wall of people dressed in red than to a single person.
"Good." Martin says and his voice sounds a little lighter. "Saves me the trouble of hauling your ass back here myself."
"So convince me or kidnap me? That's your plan?" Daniel feels his lips twitching into a grin.
"You're hardly a kid though."
Daniel catches his reflection in the window glass and when his eyes stare back at him darker than usual and his freckles stand out against the pale skin, for a second he sees the face of someone they would always call The Kid. (And he remembers a conversation he had years ago that wasn't too different from this one, except that it was.) But it's just his face and the small wrinkles in the corners of his eyes that he is yet to get used to.
"Figure you could top off your look with an abduction lawsuit?" he jokes half-heartedly.
"Says the little punk who tattoos his calves for lack of empty space on his body." Martin shoots back drily.
"Have you been following me on twitter?" he tucks at the hem of his shirt and bites back a smile.
"You think I looked up your skinny legs on google?" Martin spits and Daniel can fucking hear him grin through the words.
"My skinny legs will kick your ass, thank you very much." He retorts lamely, but it makes Martin laugh, so it's worth something.
"You think I'll be vice captain once you've buggered off?"
"Like fuck you will."
"Now that would really top off my look."
"If nothing else, I'd come back just to snatch that fucking armband from you." His threat is undermined by the yawn he hardly manages to stifle.
"Good." Martin says, almost gently. "You should get some sleep."
"Yeah." he agrees reluctantly. "So, thanks for calling."
"Yeah, no problem." Daniel hears another rustle and imagines Martin pulling the covers over his shoulders. "Danny?"
He stiffens. Because he can hear it, even feel it in his voice when he says his name and it's almost overwhelming. And if he goes to say it now, while he's lying on his bed in the safety of the dark and Daniel is sitting above the stillness of a sleeping city, outside the anonymity of a hotel room, then he would probably say it back. And they could just go from there. From whatever that meant.
"If you even think of leaving, I swear to God, Agger, I will break you fucking legs." Close enough. "I'll see you at training."
"You will." Daniel says and only later, after ending the call and slipping back into the warmth of the hotel room and into the comfort of his bed (and painfully feeling his limbs coming back to life), when he closes his eyes and almost drifts back to sleep, does he realize that it is a promise. Because he has never lied to Martin. And he wouldn't start now.