(no subject)
Title: I Won't See You Tonight
Author: lars_carp
Pairing: John Terry/Frank Lampard
Summary: That was the first sign, and Frank didn't see it. He refused to see it.
Rating: R
Warnings: Death fic.
Word count: 1,375
Frank didn't know why he didn't make the call that night. Maybe later on, when John asked him, he'd say he'd forgotten. And maybe John would be convinced. Maybe Frank would be convinced himself, too.
But, deep inside, he knew he hadn't forgotten. He remembered being watching TV that night, and remembered glancing at the phone, thinking this is the time in which I usually call John, and then, with the same calmness, turning back to his usual night series and deciding to postpone it.
Maybe later, he'd thought, but to him, "maybe later" meant not today, not in this lifetime, and he was okay with that thought. Why did he have to call John, anyway? Because you love him? He shrugged it off.
That was the first sign, and Frank didn't see it. He refused to see it.
When he and John talked the next day at practice, neither of them seemed at all disturbed at the lack of their usual night chat.
"You didn't call," John said. He wasn't asking it, wasn't reproaching Frank, he was just saying it. Like a statement, in a tone of voice you use with someone you share an elevator with, the same tone in which you say It's cold today, isn't it?, and Those are nice shoes, even if you hate them, because they look old and the colour is horrible and doesn't match at all with the rest of the clothes.
Frank didn't care. He didn't mind the meaningless tone, didn't care about John not caring. He simply shook his head, and answered "no". John smiled back.
Perhaps at some point, Frank would look back to this conversation and ask himself How the hell didn't I see it? Why didn't I notice the indifference of us both? Not now, though. Now he was just jogging with the rest of the team, and now he was planning what he'd do that night, since it was a Friday, and John could usually sneak out on Fridays, and maybe they could go to a bar with the rest of the guys instead of doing their usual night in.
"That was awesome."
"Fuck yeah. It was."
Usual routine. As Frank pulled up his pants, he felt a slight sense of emptiness, like a part of him wasn't completely satisfied. Agreeing with John that the sex had been awesome was lying to him, and to himself, but how could it not be true? In Frank's mind, sex had always been great and would always be, how could it all of a sudden leave him unsatisfied and thinking only in getting home and wanking off to a good porn movie?
"I have to take the girls to the doctor tomorrow," John said.
I'm sorry baby, but I can't meet you tomorrow. The wife is being stupid and lazy, she's sent me to drive the girls to the hospital. Rutinary appointments, you know how it is. But I promise I'll make it up to you. I'll drop the girls off, come up with a good excuse, and then compensate you all night long.
"Alright." Frank said with a shrug, leaning down to grab his shoes from the floor.
You promised no more doctor appointments, though. But if you promise you'll make it up to me, then that's fine. I'll even take out the nurse costume just for you.
"See you, man."
"Alright. Later."
Frank didn't feel like texting John that day, but he did, anyway. What are you up to?, he asked, almost hoping that John would be busy with other things, family stuff, and he wouldn't be able to make it. When he didn't answer, however, Frank didn't feel as indifferent as he wished. He had every right in the world to stop caring about John, but John didn't.
He called him, but the phone was turned off. Maybe he's fucking his wife, he thought, and the idea didn't affect him that much. He'd had some good sex that night as well, after all, and it hadn't been with John. And, he hated to admit it (or did he?), this random girl had been much better than anything in the past months.
The decision to drive to John's house popped up out of nowhere, and since he was only two blocks away with his car after picking up his Chinese dinner, he turned left and closed the gap that separated him from his captain.
Frank had to ring the bell at least 5 times until someone finally opened the door, and it wasn't who he'd been expecting. The woman looked absolutely fucked up, Frank noticed, like a car had just rolled over her, with her hair standing up in every direction, and her cheeks as red as her bloodshot eyes.
She breathed out his name almost as if he was fresh water in the middle of the desert, and he couldn't feel but worry over her tone, considering the two of them had never quite gotten along. He frowned as she launched herself at Frank's arms.
"Frank, Frank... Oh my God, Frank..."
He peeled her off his body, trying hard to ignore the wet patch she'd left in his shirt. "What? Is John home?"
"John is... John is... Frank, I just... No..."
She was in Frank's arms again, who this time, as the worst scenario jumped to his mind, held her tightly against his chest, stroking her back as if it was John himself he was comforting, like he'd done so many times. Like he'd never be able to do again.
Frank hated being surprised at himself when he cried at John's funeral. It wasn't supposed to be like that, he was supposed to be bawling his eyes out, feeling like his heart had just been ripped off his chest, and it should all seem just so natural, because who wouldn't cry when their soulmate had just died?
But his tears were discreet and surprising, everything they shouldn't have been, and it made him feel dirty, like he'd betrayed John. And he knew that he had, at some point. We'll be together forever, he could remember saying that, he could remember actually meaning it, actually wanting to spend his whole life with John, when everything they said to each other and everything they did with each other was new and shiny and exciting.
Before everything fell downhill because neither of them could read the signs that indicated that their relationship was falling apart. Because neither of them cared.
He returned to John's grave one day at night, barely 5 minutes before the visiting hours ended and the cemetery had to be closed. He chose that time because then he wouldn't have to meet the hundreds of Chelsea fans who visited their captain every day.
Hundreds of them, all crying over someone they'd never met, Frank thought viciously, almost jealous that they could suffer John's death more than he had. They always approached Frank, comforted him, told him John will never be forgotten, and fuck, if they knew.
Frank stood in front of John's grave, simply staring at it, maybe deep inside, hoping that John would crawl out of it and start laughing, pointing at Frank and saying You should've seen your face, mate! You hugging my wife, God, I never thought I'd live to see that!
"And you didn't," Frank muttered, and his eyes watered. "You didn't live to see that. You didn't live to see anything, you bastard."
The guard kindly told Frank that the gates were about to be closed. I want to stay here, I don't ever want to leave, why did I waste my time? How could we fuck up everything, John? Weren't we perfect for each other?
"Sir?"
Frank kneeled in front of John's tombstone, just a piece of stone that read some meaningless words that his wife had come up with. Something stupid, surely, he didn't know. He hadn't even read it. A loving husband, he knew it said, except he wasn't. A loving friend, that was more like it.
He ran his hand over the place under which John's body was buried. Another tear fell down his cheek, and it wasn't discreet, wasn't surprising. Frank smiled.
"I love you," he whispered.
That wasn't a lie.
Author: lars_carp
Pairing: John Terry/Frank Lampard
Summary: That was the first sign, and Frank didn't see it. He refused to see it.
Rating: R
Warnings: Death fic.
Word count: 1,375
Frank didn't know why he didn't make the call that night. Maybe later on, when John asked him, he'd say he'd forgotten. And maybe John would be convinced. Maybe Frank would be convinced himself, too.
But, deep inside, he knew he hadn't forgotten. He remembered being watching TV that night, and remembered glancing at the phone, thinking this is the time in which I usually call John, and then, with the same calmness, turning back to his usual night series and deciding to postpone it.
Maybe later, he'd thought, but to him, "maybe later" meant not today, not in this lifetime, and he was okay with that thought. Why did he have to call John, anyway? Because you love him? He shrugged it off.
That was the first sign, and Frank didn't see it. He refused to see it.
When he and John talked the next day at practice, neither of them seemed at all disturbed at the lack of their usual night chat.
"You didn't call," John said. He wasn't asking it, wasn't reproaching Frank, he was just saying it. Like a statement, in a tone of voice you use with someone you share an elevator with, the same tone in which you say It's cold today, isn't it?, and Those are nice shoes, even if you hate them, because they look old and the colour is horrible and doesn't match at all with the rest of the clothes.
Frank didn't care. He didn't mind the meaningless tone, didn't care about John not caring. He simply shook his head, and answered "no". John smiled back.
Perhaps at some point, Frank would look back to this conversation and ask himself How the hell didn't I see it? Why didn't I notice the indifference of us both? Not now, though. Now he was just jogging with the rest of the team, and now he was planning what he'd do that night, since it was a Friday, and John could usually sneak out on Fridays, and maybe they could go to a bar with the rest of the guys instead of doing their usual night in.
"That was awesome."
"Fuck yeah. It was."
Usual routine. As Frank pulled up his pants, he felt a slight sense of emptiness, like a part of him wasn't completely satisfied. Agreeing with John that the sex had been awesome was lying to him, and to himself, but how could it not be true? In Frank's mind, sex had always been great and would always be, how could it all of a sudden leave him unsatisfied and thinking only in getting home and wanking off to a good porn movie?
"I have to take the girls to the doctor tomorrow," John said.
I'm sorry baby, but I can't meet you tomorrow. The wife is being stupid and lazy, she's sent me to drive the girls to the hospital. Rutinary appointments, you know how it is. But I promise I'll make it up to you. I'll drop the girls off, come up with a good excuse, and then compensate you all night long.
"Alright." Frank said with a shrug, leaning down to grab his shoes from the floor.
You promised no more doctor appointments, though. But if you promise you'll make it up to me, then that's fine. I'll even take out the nurse costume just for you.
"See you, man."
"Alright. Later."
Frank didn't feel like texting John that day, but he did, anyway. What are you up to?, he asked, almost hoping that John would be busy with other things, family stuff, and he wouldn't be able to make it. When he didn't answer, however, Frank didn't feel as indifferent as he wished. He had every right in the world to stop caring about John, but John didn't.
He called him, but the phone was turned off. Maybe he's fucking his wife, he thought, and the idea didn't affect him that much. He'd had some good sex that night as well, after all, and it hadn't been with John. And, he hated to admit it (or did he?), this random girl had been much better than anything in the past months.
The decision to drive to John's house popped up out of nowhere, and since he was only two blocks away with his car after picking up his Chinese dinner, he turned left and closed the gap that separated him from his captain.
Frank had to ring the bell at least 5 times until someone finally opened the door, and it wasn't who he'd been expecting. The woman looked absolutely fucked up, Frank noticed, like a car had just rolled over her, with her hair standing up in every direction, and her cheeks as red as her bloodshot eyes.
She breathed out his name almost as if he was fresh water in the middle of the desert, and he couldn't feel but worry over her tone, considering the two of them had never quite gotten along. He frowned as she launched herself at Frank's arms.
"Frank, Frank... Oh my God, Frank..."
He peeled her off his body, trying hard to ignore the wet patch she'd left in his shirt. "What? Is John home?"
"John is... John is... Frank, I just... No..."
She was in Frank's arms again, who this time, as the worst scenario jumped to his mind, held her tightly against his chest, stroking her back as if it was John himself he was comforting, like he'd done so many times. Like he'd never be able to do again.
Frank hated being surprised at himself when he cried at John's funeral. It wasn't supposed to be like that, he was supposed to be bawling his eyes out, feeling like his heart had just been ripped off his chest, and it should all seem just so natural, because who wouldn't cry when their soulmate had just died?
But his tears were discreet and surprising, everything they shouldn't have been, and it made him feel dirty, like he'd betrayed John. And he knew that he had, at some point. We'll be together forever, he could remember saying that, he could remember actually meaning it, actually wanting to spend his whole life with John, when everything they said to each other and everything they did with each other was new and shiny and exciting.
Before everything fell downhill because neither of them could read the signs that indicated that their relationship was falling apart. Because neither of them cared.
He returned to John's grave one day at night, barely 5 minutes before the visiting hours ended and the cemetery had to be closed. He chose that time because then he wouldn't have to meet the hundreds of Chelsea fans who visited their captain every day.
Hundreds of them, all crying over someone they'd never met, Frank thought viciously, almost jealous that they could suffer John's death more than he had. They always approached Frank, comforted him, told him John will never be forgotten, and fuck, if they knew.
Frank stood in front of John's grave, simply staring at it, maybe deep inside, hoping that John would crawl out of it and start laughing, pointing at Frank and saying You should've seen your face, mate! You hugging my wife, God, I never thought I'd live to see that!
"And you didn't," Frank muttered, and his eyes watered. "You didn't live to see that. You didn't live to see anything, you bastard."
The guard kindly told Frank that the gates were about to be closed. I want to stay here, I don't ever want to leave, why did I waste my time? How could we fuck up everything, John? Weren't we perfect for each other?
"Sir?"
Frank kneeled in front of John's tombstone, just a piece of stone that read some meaningless words that his wife had come up with. Something stupid, surely, he didn't know. He hadn't even read it. A loving husband, he knew it said, except he wasn't. A loving friend, that was more like it.
He ran his hand over the place under which John's body was buried. Another tear fell down his cheek, and it wasn't discreet, wasn't surprising. Frank smiled.
"I love you," he whispered.
That wasn't a lie.