A bit of housekeeping
This is one of the two RPS fics I've written and posted in my regular (and completely friends only) journal lucy_lupin that I decided to make open to the general public for your perversion enjoyment. While it was written way back in 2003, it still remains to this day one of my favourite fics ever written and the only one I'm one hundred percent happy with. So I'm not touching it ;)
Title: In the Closet
Author: lucy_lupin
Characters: Pires, Mellberg, Henry, Ljungberg, Wiltord and A. Cole
Pairing: Pires/Mellberg in lust (so it won't ruin all your other ships ;p)
Genre: General, humour and slash (of course!)
Rating: PG-13, mostly for language
Word Count: 4,013
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Including in the monetary sense. Therefore suing is a waste of both your and my time. I also have heard nothing about any of the players mentioned behaving in this manner, so please don't take this story as a representative of their true characters. We know that they're all good boys and responsible role models, yadda yadda. But really, how exciting is being a responsible role model?
Author's Notes: At the time I had a Pires/Mellberg plot bunny that kept on nibbling at my toes while I was trying to do work, so I had to stop and feed it. It's my first attempt at slash in any genre and it was surprisingly easy to write. It's PG-13, mostly for language, so it shouldn't give too many people reason to freak out. And this is (was) my first attempt at slash, so play nice.
* ~ * ~ *
After ninety minutes, and then some, it was all over. Aston Villa had gone down courtesy of a goal from Freddie Ljungberg, who, as always, shone on the big occasions. There were of course tears. Any team that reached the semis in any knock-out competition knew they had a real crack at it. But even as the Villa players queued up first to collect their runners-up medals, even the most dour had to reflect that this had been their best season in recent years. An FA Cup final girth and European football to look forward come August. They had done well to reach this far, and there was no shame in being beaten by a team of quality. And after all, what spoke of quality more than a double-winning side?
So it was that once the initial disappointment had dulled, the Aston Villa contingent joined their Arsenal counterparts in the players' lounge in relatively good spirits. It was in even better spirits and numerous bottles of champagne later that Sol Campbell, Dion Dublin, Sylvian Wiltord, Thierry Henry, the goalscorer and the man of the match, Ashley Cole, found themselves remaining behind hours after most of their team-mates had decided to celebrate elsewhere. It was with even more champagne in their systems that they began to discuss the love lives of those absent - or asleep, as in the case of Robert Pires of Arsenal and Olof Mellberg of Aston Villa - and came to the solution that something had to be done.
"He's an alright bloke in his way," slurred Ashley Cole. "All he needs is the love of a good woman."
"Well-" Thierry began, so quietly that only Ljungberg, who was sitting next to him, heard.
"I don't know how this has come to pass," an equally, if not more, drunk Wiltord who had taken over Ian Wright's mantle as the team joker since the record goalscorer had departed. "He's a world-cup winner. He has two championship medals and he's just won the FA Cup - against a very difficult side," he added quickly, seeing Dublin was looking at him. "He should be rolling in girls. Literally." There were a few cackles of laughter.
"Er-" For the second time, Thierry tried to cut in.
"And he's French," Sylvian finished emphatically.
"Not that I don't agree with you, but-"
"For Chrissakes, let Titi have a word," Freddie, tipsily not realising that in his attempt to give Thierry the floor, he had cut his teammate off, ordered.
"The thing is," Thierry said delicately, glancing around at the circle of players assessingly, "is that the love of a good woman is the last thing he needs."
Freddie, who still retained some of his natural intelligence despite his inebriated state, widened his eyes in understanding. Dublin and Campbell, who were the two most sober players present but more innocent when it came to such things, took a little longer to catch on. Wiltord chortled briefly and shared an understanding glance with Freddie. Ashley Cole, however, was not blessed (he may have said "cursed") by such subtlety. "You mean our Robert's a fairy?"
"A homosexual," the more politically-correct Thierry corrected. In his corner of the room the homosexual in question snorted loudly, then rolled onto his side. Mellberg was similarly out cold.
"What do you mean by your Robert, eh?" Sylvian jibed, never missing the opportunity to cast a sexual innuedo.
"Well he does always have nice hair," Ashley mused, then picked up on what exactly Sylvian had said and meant. "Oh come on now, I'm not his type. In every sense of the word."
"I wonder who his type is," Thierry mused.
"I'd rather not," Campbell said pointedly. Dublin nodded in agreement.
"You know, a lot of people think I'm gay," Freddie, who had been silent until now, spoke up suddenly.
"Goodness, I wonder why," said Thierry, all innocence. "I mean, just because you're a Calvin Klein model-"
"-And spend more time shopping then me missus-" Ashley continued.
"-And go to the opera-" Thierry opined.
"-Frequently-" Ashley chipped in.
"-More often than the Queen-" Campbell corrected him. Dublin fought back a snigger. Mellberg had started to snore.
"-And just happen to be Swedish-" Sylvian added.
"Alright, alright," Freddie cut them off. "You know, you French guys aren't exactly known for being as straight as tadpoles either."
"Wha'?" Thierry blinked.
"I am a towering, quivering mass of masculinity," Sylvian said stoutly. Campbell and Dublin choked into their champagne flutes.
"Let the little Swedish boy speak," Ashley said idly.
Freddie, flushed by the alcohol pumping through his system, rose to his feet, splashing champagne over Thierry and Dublin as he did so. "Gentlemen and ladies," he said grandly, pointedly nodding at Thierry and Sylvian, who gave him the finger. "I have an announcement to make." Then, an idea casting a gleam in his eye, added, "No, I'm not gay, but just because I'm not, it doesn't mean that all other Swedes aren't either."
Everyone turned to look at Mellberg.
"No," Thierry breathed. Freddie, fighting to keep his face solemn, nodded.
"Le Bob I can understand," Ashley began, "but he can tackle."
"What does tackling have to do with being gay?" Thierry asked him.
"Everything," Ashley said smugly. Thierry rolled his eyes.
"You know," Freddie continued in a tone that caught everyone's attention. Freddie spoke comparatively less than the rest of them, but when he did, he was listened to. "That was why we had that big bust-up over before the World Cup."
"He thought you were like him," Thierry concluded.
"-And that I was lying because I wasn't really interested, when the truth was that, sure, I wasn't interested in him, but then I'm not interested in any other men either. I'm beginning to regret the day I signed that Calvin Klein contract. Needless to say he was quite hurt. But now," Freddie's lips curved into a smile, "it has come to my attention that I have a teammate who may be interested in him."
"Bloody hell," Campbell swore.
"So that's what really caused that big hissy fit last September," Ashley breathed. "Sexual tension."
"I mean, it was obvious to anyone that they weren't really trying to hurt each other," Sylvian continued. "It was handbags really." Ashley sniggered. Campbell and Dublin were both beginning to look distinctly uncomfortable.
"It could work," Ashley said. "Neither of them are ugly. And I mean that as a completely platonic observer," he said quickly, seeing Wiltord about to speak. "So then, how are we going to pull it off?"
Freddie had been sitting quietly, allowing the seeds that he had planted in other's minds to be sown, but now, seeing that they had reached an impasse and may not go into the final stretch without some prompting, spoke up. "There's a janitor's closet down the end of the hall."
"I see," Sylvian drawled.
"A janitor's closet with a lock on the door," Freddie elaborated.
"Righto then," Ashley said, standing up and brushing off his hands in a let's-get-down-to-business manner, "I'm sick of Bob sulking around the changing rooms like a kicked dog. I say we toss them both in there and see how long it takes them to settle their differences."
"I second that emotion," Sylvian said enthuastically, leaping up besides Ashley and drunkedly saluting no-one in particular. "Notion," he corrected himself sheepishly, seeing Thierry give him a pained look.
Straightaway Campbell and Dublin got to their feet, declaring they would have nothing to do with the whole affair (as it may be), but departed with covert instructions that what was to go down from now on be related back to them in detail. Thierry too was dead against the idea, but within a period in which the generous amount of champagne the others plied him with, more so than Ashley and Sylvian's attempts at reasoning with him, was somewhat converted him to the idea. Minutes later the blissfully unaware Pires and Mellberg were ferried to the aforementioned closet. Robert, tall but thin, was light enough for the more solidly-built but by now swaying Thierry to sack-of-potato him there. Freddie and Ashley, meanwhile, staggered under the much heftier form of one six-foot-four Olaf Mellberg. Why does every Swede other than me have to be so bloody tall? the five-foot-nine Ljungberg wondered with no small amount of irony. Meanwhile Sylvian, at the first sight of hard work had conveniently buggered off.
"Bloody typical," Ashley had muttered.
"Un moment," Sylvian's strained voice called down the hallway, followed by some loud clattering and even louder swearing. The three conscious gooners looked down anxiously at Robert's face as he stirred, but fortunately remained asleep. Mellberg continued to snore drunkedly. Sylvian soon appeared, his face grim with exertion above a cumbersome white object.
"You brought the mini-bar with you?" Thierry gaped.
"Yeah, they might need it," Ashley backed up the forward he had previously bemoaned. "Social lubricant and all."
"Perhaps it might be better if they didn't have sharp, pointed objects with them," Thierry suggested sagely, his doubts returning with a vengeance.
"Why not just take everything out of the fridge and carry it with you?" Freddie, with the clarity of someone on the final stages of drunkiness before sobriety kicked in, asked.
"Ah, but that would involve making more than one trip," Sylvian, with the clarity of someone nowhere near sobriety, wagged a finger at him.
"I give up," Freddie sighed.
First the fridge was loaded in, followed by Mellberg and then Robert, the smaller of the two, placed on top of Mellberg. "Something tells me he'd like it that way," Ashley sniggered. "He's a dominating - err -" Sylvian had started to look at him again "-bossy little prick." After turning the key in the clock with a resounding click, the four of them each pulled up a patch of carpet, a champagne flute, and waited for the shouting matches to begin.
"Hey, Henry," Ashley said presently. "Martin and van Nistelrooy, you don't think the whole thing with them is-"
"No!" the other three said quickly. Their job was a high-pressure one, and they had enough trouble getting to sleep at night without such unsavory images in their heads.
* * * * *
The first thing Robert was aware of was that there was a crick in his neck and his stomach was churning around like a washing machine. The next thing was that there was a warm and very male body underneath his. And a very happy male body, by the feel of things.
He yelped and leapt up as if he'd been shot.
"Bloody hell, you even scream like a girl," said an annoyed voice beneath him.
"Who are you?" Robert demanded, inching backwards as far as the confined compartments of their prison would allow. Which wasn't anywhere far enough. "What are we doing in here?"
"Well, the fact that I'm in here with you would lead any reasonable person to deduce that I am as much a victim of this as you are, and therefore you have nothing to fear from me," the other man said laconically. Robert figured that his inmate, being conscious for longer than he, had time to suss out the situation that he didn't. Being a professional athlete he had a competitive nature, and instantly felt miffed that he was the one on the back foot. "And by that ridiculous excuse for facial hair on your chin, I would take it that you are Robert Pires?"
"I may be," Robert said cautiously, feeling around behind him for a weapon. His hand touched the top of something cool, solid and smooth. "And you are?"
"Do you really want to know?" The voice, which was one he was definitely familiar with but couldn't quite place, sounded almost amused, much to his annoyance.
"Would I ask if I didn't?" Robert snapped, his hand trying to figure out what the hell the object behind him was. "I don't talk just to hear the sound of my own voice, you know."
"That surprises me since you certainly talk out of your arse enough," said his inmate resentfully. "Like that game against us last September."
"Mellberg," Robert breathed.
"Diving twat," Mellberg echoed.
"Thick-headed thug," Robert rejoined, raking his hand through his hair and trying to figure out how the hell he'd got into this mess. He decided he'd rather not know. "I'm think I'm not alone in my opinion that I'd like to spend as little time in here as possible. Have you tried the door yet?"
"Well, since until recently, there was a skinny little boy with ribs like an accordion snoring away on top of me, I couldn't really move," Mellberg snapped back. "And if it troubles you so much, why don't you try the door?"
Robert finally sensed an opportunity to get back onto equal footing. "Oh, I could if I wanted to," he said lazily. "I just thought that being closer, you may like to be the one to try it. After all, this is a very small cupboard and I cannot guarantee where I put my foot down."
Olof gulped audibly. For the first time Robert smiled. "Fine, then, I will do it," the Swede said irritably. Robert's smiled further widened. He felt hairy knees shift against his own as Olof - Mellberg - moved closer to the door, and unaccountably felt himself tense up. Until then, the only pairs of knees that had come into contact with his own off the pitch had been definitely not hairy, and this was a, well, novel experience.
Outside Freddie and Ashley were engaged in a whispered but heated tug-of-war over a boombox. "Oh, come on," Ashley was protesting. "If there was ever an excuse to play the Village People, this is it!"
"For the last time," Freddie sighed, "you are not going to play "Y M C A." Sylvian, back me up on this?"
Sylvian had fallen asleep on Thierry's shoulder. "Why do you need to play the Village People so badly?" Thierry yawned.
Ashley gulped. Freddie smirked.
"No, it's locked." Back inside the closet, Olof sighed irritably. "I guess at this point I would have to take a shot in the dark and ask whether you may actually have any ideas."
"You say that like you think I wouldn't," Robert accused him.
"That I do. But hey, I'm an optimist," Olof shrugged.
"You'd have to be playing for Villa," Robert retorted. Truth was, he had a lot of respect for the Birmingham outfit, well, present company and manager David O'Leary excepted, but he was in the mood where he'd fling out anything as an insult just to get the best of the defender. "So, why ask? Why bother?"
"Because I like to hear the sound of your voice," Olof smirked. Robert rolled his eyes. "So, do you have any ideas or am I stuck in here with you for the rest of the evening?"
"There might be something in this cupboard behind me," Robert said, carefully manoeuvring to the side of the compartment, his fingers running over it to get a better idea of what it was. His eyes widened in surprise - it was a minibar? He found the rubber strip separating the door from the storage compartment and slid his hand down to grasp the handle. He felt a thud as it connected with Mellberg's legs, and the blond cried out. "Now who screams like a girl?"
"You did that on purpose," Olof accused.
"No I didn't," Robert retorted. "But why should I care about your shins when you seem to have so little respect for mine?"
"I do care about your shins," Olof said.
"What?" Robert blinked. He couldn't have heard correctly. Surely Mellberg wasn't that type. Well, the defender had seemed "happy" when he woke up on top of him, but those sort of things could just happen automatically and have nothing to do with the present situation.
"Nothing," Olof said gruffly. "I just figured you must be an optimist too, to think you'll earn penalties for some of the dives you've done in the past."
It occurred to Robert that Olof was only trying to provoke a reaction, which was why he bit down his instinct to vehemently deny all charges. "I said that about two minutes ago and you've just thought of a comeback now?" he made his voice cheerful, as if praising a small child. "Good boy! Soon you may even need to consider a change of hair colour."
"You tackle like a girl," Olof declared.
"At least my tackles are honest ones," Robert rejoined, his hand feeling around in the refrigerator. Finally he found what he wanted. "Here. Drink and shut up."
"Only if you do the same," Olof retorted, but took the offered can and cracked it open. "Hey, this is only coke. Is this all the minibar has?"
"No," Robert replied. Strangely, he was beginning to enjoy himself. "But I'm getting the liquor."
"And why the hell is that?" the Swede retorted.
"Because I am smaller than you are," Robert grinned. "It will not be such a waste on me. Besides, I need a drink or two in order to be stuck in here with you. Now drink and be merry."
"Not bloody likely," Olof snapped. "I want some of what you're having."
"I don't think you'd want to know your sister that well," Robert said, struggling to keep a straight face. Sure, Olof couldn't see him, but he was sure any mirth in his expression would transfer itself to his voice.
"You watch your bloody mouth," Olof threatened.
"That would be physically impossible," Robert reasoned, downing the miniature bottle of brandy in several gulps. "If my mouth must be watched, it has to be by you."
Outside, Ashley yawned. "They're still talking," he observed. "A little less conversation, a little more action, people."
"Oh, they are just having a lover's tiff," Sylvian shrugged. "The best sex comes after those."
"Wiltord," Thierry begged. He wished for the first, and not the last time that evening, that he was somewhere else.
Freddie ended any further discussion of what exactly Robert and Mellberg were up to in that closet by popping open yet another bottle of champagne.
"Why the hell would I want to watch your mouth?" Olof demanded gruffly, but his palms were beginning to sweat. How much did that sneaky, sly, leggy - no, little, yes, that was the word he was searching for - Frenchman know? He couldn't possibly.
"You tell me," Robert said coolly.
"Tell you what?" Olof queried. Oh shit, he did know. He could sense the winger grinning in the dark. He was cleverer than he initially seemed. Bastard. "Well, if you're so desperate to get out of here, why haven't you been banging on the door screaming for help?"
"I haven't noticed you screaming for help either," Robert pointed out. Mellberg swore inwardly. "Personally, I have not been screaming because all of our team-mates would have left by now and the next event that happens here isn't until the cricket, which is not until June."
Oh. Dear. God. Surely they would have someone in to clean the place before then? Olof was beginning to panic. He didn't like being stuck in confined places at the best of times, especially with a sexy - smirking Frenchman. "June?" His voice came out a panicked squeak.
"Yes. Maybe," Robert shrugged, then noticed the leg next to his was trembling. "What is it now? Afraid the big bad girl tackler will beat you up?"
"No," Olof said, debating how much to tell his companion. Oh, what the hell. He had suffered enough humiliations already this evening. Including being responsible for Ljungberg's goal. And his - reaction - to Robert's nearness. "I do not like being in small, closed spaces. Haven't since I was a little boy and I went crawling around a rotting house with my friends, which collapsed on top of me. I was stuck there for almost ten hours before they finally got me out."
"Alone?" Robert asked.
"Yes," Olof confirmed. Why, oh why had he told him?
"I am sorry. I did not know," Robert said sincerely. Olof was surprised. He had expected scorn and amusement, but not this almost compassion. "I think you are doing very well, considering."
"Well, I'm not exactly alone, am I?' Mellberg said, then blanched at the - shit, there was really no other word for it - sentimental tone his voice had taken on. He could sense Robert pausing, assessing him. He knew too much.
"No, you're not," Robert said. "Definitely not." Olof could feel a furious flush creep up his face. And why was Robert so much closer? "So why, if you are so afraid of small spaces, did you not wake me up to try to open the door?"
"I didn't want to have to talk to you," Olof said, forcing some of the earlier harshness into his voice. He couldn't tell the dark-haired Frenchman that he had actually enjoyed having him on top of him.
"Really?" Robert, damn him, sounded amused. "Well, we are having a conversation now, and it is not so bad, isn't it?"
Olof ran his hands over his scalp, the short blond strands tickling his palms. "No, it's not," he admitted grudging.
For a moment both were silent. Outside Wiltord and co were growing restless. Both the alcohol and their patience were in short supply. Cole was mourning the absence of the minibar. Then, "I've changed my mind," Robert announced. "You can have a real drink."
Olof wasn't sure if that was such a good idea now. When he drank, he tended to get honest. But he wasn't sure how much longer he could deal with Robert's presence without something in his system. He heard the snap of a bottle's lid being twisted off. "Yes, you can have a drink," Robert repeated. "But it will be on my terms, not yours."
Before Olof had a chance to figure out what that meant, Robert put the opening of the bottle to his own lips, took a hasty swallow, then, with strength surprising from one so slender, hauled the Swede to his feet by the collar of his shirt and crushed his lips to his, mingling rum with saliva. And before he had a chance to figure out what that meant, he was kissing him back, claustrophobia completely forgotten.
Olof wasn't the best kisser Robert had ever experienced, and he certainly wasn't the person he had felt closest to, but he was one of the first men he had ever kissed and even if the technique wasn't perfect, the act in itself convinced him that what had been lacking from most of his earlier kissers was that he wasn't kissing a man. He couldn't remember who had put his tongue into whose mouth, but he didn't give a shit. And neither could he recall the exact moment Mellberg had lifted him off the ground, completely supporting his weight and his unconsciously wrapping his legs around Mellberg's waist. He was only happy that they had ended up there.
Neither heard the key clicking in the lock until now-unwelcome light flooded the compartment. Both blinked and stared dumbly back at the intruders, Mellberg in his shock not thinking to take his hands off Robert's arse. Wiltord and Cole were both grinning back at them, Ljungberg coyly trying to look elsewhere and Henry looking distinctly uncomfortable. "We heard the yelling stop so we figured something must have happened," Wiltord said. "And then I remembered that I've yet to make a contribution to the end-of-season slideshow. Say cheese, little boys." His hand, which until then neither had noticed was behind his back, came out and snapped a shot at them.
Several minutes later Freddie, Ashley and Thierry were on the upmost piers of Wembly Stadium, blithely drinking champagne and watching as a shrieking Sylvian was chased around below by an irate Robert and Mellberg. "Always thought that little bastard didn't do enough running on the pitch," Ashley observed.
The End
Title: In the Closet
Author: lucy_lupin
Characters: Pires, Mellberg, Henry, Ljungberg, Wiltord and A. Cole
Pairing: Pires/Mellberg in lust (so it won't ruin all your other ships ;p)
Genre: General, humour and slash (of course!)
Rating: PG-13, mostly for language
Word Count: 4,013
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Including in the monetary sense. Therefore suing is a waste of both your and my time. I also have heard nothing about any of the players mentioned behaving in this manner, so please don't take this story as a representative of their true characters. We know that they're all good boys and responsible role models, yadda yadda. But really, how exciting is being a responsible role model?
Author's Notes: At the time I had a Pires/Mellberg plot bunny that kept on nibbling at my toes while I was trying to do work, so I had to stop and feed it. It's my first attempt at slash in any genre and it was surprisingly easy to write. It's PG-13, mostly for language, so it shouldn't give too many people reason to freak out. And this is (was) my first attempt at slash, so play nice.
* ~ * ~ *
After ninety minutes, and then some, it was all over. Aston Villa had gone down courtesy of a goal from Freddie Ljungberg, who, as always, shone on the big occasions. There were of course tears. Any team that reached the semis in any knock-out competition knew they had a real crack at it. But even as the Villa players queued up first to collect their runners-up medals, even the most dour had to reflect that this had been their best season in recent years. An FA Cup final girth and European football to look forward come August. They had done well to reach this far, and there was no shame in being beaten by a team of quality. And after all, what spoke of quality more than a double-winning side?
So it was that once the initial disappointment had dulled, the Aston Villa contingent joined their Arsenal counterparts in the players' lounge in relatively good spirits. It was in even better spirits and numerous bottles of champagne later that Sol Campbell, Dion Dublin, Sylvian Wiltord, Thierry Henry, the goalscorer and the man of the match, Ashley Cole, found themselves remaining behind hours after most of their team-mates had decided to celebrate elsewhere. It was with even more champagne in their systems that they began to discuss the love lives of those absent - or asleep, as in the case of Robert Pires of Arsenal and Olof Mellberg of Aston Villa - and came to the solution that something had to be done.
"He's an alright bloke in his way," slurred Ashley Cole. "All he needs is the love of a good woman."
"Well-" Thierry began, so quietly that only Ljungberg, who was sitting next to him, heard.
"I don't know how this has come to pass," an equally, if not more, drunk Wiltord who had taken over Ian Wright's mantle as the team joker since the record goalscorer had departed. "He's a world-cup winner. He has two championship medals and he's just won the FA Cup - against a very difficult side," he added quickly, seeing Dublin was looking at him. "He should be rolling in girls. Literally." There were a few cackles of laughter.
"Er-" For the second time, Thierry tried to cut in.
"And he's French," Sylvian finished emphatically.
"Not that I don't agree with you, but-"
"For Chrissakes, let Titi have a word," Freddie, tipsily not realising that in his attempt to give Thierry the floor, he had cut his teammate off, ordered.
"The thing is," Thierry said delicately, glancing around at the circle of players assessingly, "is that the love of a good woman is the last thing he needs."
Freddie, who still retained some of his natural intelligence despite his inebriated state, widened his eyes in understanding. Dublin and Campbell, who were the two most sober players present but more innocent when it came to such things, took a little longer to catch on. Wiltord chortled briefly and shared an understanding glance with Freddie. Ashley Cole, however, was not blessed (he may have said "cursed") by such subtlety. "You mean our Robert's a fairy?"
"A homosexual," the more politically-correct Thierry corrected. In his corner of the room the homosexual in question snorted loudly, then rolled onto his side. Mellberg was similarly out cold.
"What do you mean by your Robert, eh?" Sylvian jibed, never missing the opportunity to cast a sexual innuedo.
"Well he does always have nice hair," Ashley mused, then picked up on what exactly Sylvian had said and meant. "Oh come on now, I'm not his type. In every sense of the word."
"I wonder who his type is," Thierry mused.
"I'd rather not," Campbell said pointedly. Dublin nodded in agreement.
"You know, a lot of people think I'm gay," Freddie, who had been silent until now, spoke up suddenly.
"Goodness, I wonder why," said Thierry, all innocence. "I mean, just because you're a Calvin Klein model-"
"-And spend more time shopping then me missus-" Ashley continued.
"-And go to the opera-" Thierry opined.
"-Frequently-" Ashley chipped in.
"-More often than the Queen-" Campbell corrected him. Dublin fought back a snigger. Mellberg had started to snore.
"-And just happen to be Swedish-" Sylvian added.
"Alright, alright," Freddie cut them off. "You know, you French guys aren't exactly known for being as straight as tadpoles either."
"Wha'?" Thierry blinked.
"I am a towering, quivering mass of masculinity," Sylvian said stoutly. Campbell and Dublin choked into their champagne flutes.
"Let the little Swedish boy speak," Ashley said idly.
Freddie, flushed by the alcohol pumping through his system, rose to his feet, splashing champagne over Thierry and Dublin as he did so. "Gentlemen and ladies," he said grandly, pointedly nodding at Thierry and Sylvian, who gave him the finger. "I have an announcement to make." Then, an idea casting a gleam in his eye, added, "No, I'm not gay, but just because I'm not, it doesn't mean that all other Swedes aren't either."
Everyone turned to look at Mellberg.
"No," Thierry breathed. Freddie, fighting to keep his face solemn, nodded.
"Le Bob I can understand," Ashley began, "but he can tackle."
"What does tackling have to do with being gay?" Thierry asked him.
"Everything," Ashley said smugly. Thierry rolled his eyes.
"You know," Freddie continued in a tone that caught everyone's attention. Freddie spoke comparatively less than the rest of them, but when he did, he was listened to. "That was why we had that big bust-up over before the World Cup."
"He thought you were like him," Thierry concluded.
"-And that I was lying because I wasn't really interested, when the truth was that, sure, I wasn't interested in him, but then I'm not interested in any other men either. I'm beginning to regret the day I signed that Calvin Klein contract. Needless to say he was quite hurt. But now," Freddie's lips curved into a smile, "it has come to my attention that I have a teammate who may be interested in him."
"Bloody hell," Campbell swore.
"So that's what really caused that big hissy fit last September," Ashley breathed. "Sexual tension."
"I mean, it was obvious to anyone that they weren't really trying to hurt each other," Sylvian continued. "It was handbags really." Ashley sniggered. Campbell and Dublin were both beginning to look distinctly uncomfortable.
"It could work," Ashley said. "Neither of them are ugly. And I mean that as a completely platonic observer," he said quickly, seeing Wiltord about to speak. "So then, how are we going to pull it off?"
Freddie had been sitting quietly, allowing the seeds that he had planted in other's minds to be sown, but now, seeing that they had reached an impasse and may not go into the final stretch without some prompting, spoke up. "There's a janitor's closet down the end of the hall."
"I see," Sylvian drawled.
"A janitor's closet with a lock on the door," Freddie elaborated.
"Righto then," Ashley said, standing up and brushing off his hands in a let's-get-down-to-business manner, "I'm sick of Bob sulking around the changing rooms like a kicked dog. I say we toss them both in there and see how long it takes them to settle their differences."
"I second that emotion," Sylvian said enthuastically, leaping up besides Ashley and drunkedly saluting no-one in particular. "Notion," he corrected himself sheepishly, seeing Thierry give him a pained look.
Straightaway Campbell and Dublin got to their feet, declaring they would have nothing to do with the whole affair (as it may be), but departed with covert instructions that what was to go down from now on be related back to them in detail. Thierry too was dead against the idea, but within a period in which the generous amount of champagne the others plied him with, more so than Ashley and Sylvian's attempts at reasoning with him, was somewhat converted him to the idea. Minutes later the blissfully unaware Pires and Mellberg were ferried to the aforementioned closet. Robert, tall but thin, was light enough for the more solidly-built but by now swaying Thierry to sack-of-potato him there. Freddie and Ashley, meanwhile, staggered under the much heftier form of one six-foot-four Olaf Mellberg. Why does every Swede other than me have to be so bloody tall? the five-foot-nine Ljungberg wondered with no small amount of irony. Meanwhile Sylvian, at the first sight of hard work had conveniently buggered off.
"Bloody typical," Ashley had muttered.
"Un moment," Sylvian's strained voice called down the hallway, followed by some loud clattering and even louder swearing. The three conscious gooners looked down anxiously at Robert's face as he stirred, but fortunately remained asleep. Mellberg continued to snore drunkedly. Sylvian soon appeared, his face grim with exertion above a cumbersome white object.
"You brought the mini-bar with you?" Thierry gaped.
"Yeah, they might need it," Ashley backed up the forward he had previously bemoaned. "Social lubricant and all."
"Perhaps it might be better if they didn't have sharp, pointed objects with them," Thierry suggested sagely, his doubts returning with a vengeance.
"Why not just take everything out of the fridge and carry it with you?" Freddie, with the clarity of someone on the final stages of drunkiness before sobriety kicked in, asked.
"Ah, but that would involve making more than one trip," Sylvian, with the clarity of someone nowhere near sobriety, wagged a finger at him.
"I give up," Freddie sighed.
First the fridge was loaded in, followed by Mellberg and then Robert, the smaller of the two, placed on top of Mellberg. "Something tells me he'd like it that way," Ashley sniggered. "He's a dominating - err -" Sylvian had started to look at him again "-bossy little prick." After turning the key in the clock with a resounding click, the four of them each pulled up a patch of carpet, a champagne flute, and waited for the shouting matches to begin.
"Hey, Henry," Ashley said presently. "Martin and van Nistelrooy, you don't think the whole thing with them is-"
"No!" the other three said quickly. Their job was a high-pressure one, and they had enough trouble getting to sleep at night without such unsavory images in their heads.
* * * * *
The first thing Robert was aware of was that there was a crick in his neck and his stomach was churning around like a washing machine. The next thing was that there was a warm and very male body underneath his. And a very happy male body, by the feel of things.
He yelped and leapt up as if he'd been shot.
"Bloody hell, you even scream like a girl," said an annoyed voice beneath him.
"Who are you?" Robert demanded, inching backwards as far as the confined compartments of their prison would allow. Which wasn't anywhere far enough. "What are we doing in here?"
"Well, the fact that I'm in here with you would lead any reasonable person to deduce that I am as much a victim of this as you are, and therefore you have nothing to fear from me," the other man said laconically. Robert figured that his inmate, being conscious for longer than he, had time to suss out the situation that he didn't. Being a professional athlete he had a competitive nature, and instantly felt miffed that he was the one on the back foot. "And by that ridiculous excuse for facial hair on your chin, I would take it that you are Robert Pires?"
"I may be," Robert said cautiously, feeling around behind him for a weapon. His hand touched the top of something cool, solid and smooth. "And you are?"
"Do you really want to know?" The voice, which was one he was definitely familiar with but couldn't quite place, sounded almost amused, much to his annoyance.
"Would I ask if I didn't?" Robert snapped, his hand trying to figure out what the hell the object behind him was. "I don't talk just to hear the sound of my own voice, you know."
"That surprises me since you certainly talk out of your arse enough," said his inmate resentfully. "Like that game against us last September."
"Mellberg," Robert breathed.
"Diving twat," Mellberg echoed.
"Thick-headed thug," Robert rejoined, raking his hand through his hair and trying to figure out how the hell he'd got into this mess. He decided he'd rather not know. "I'm think I'm not alone in my opinion that I'd like to spend as little time in here as possible. Have you tried the door yet?"
"Well, since until recently, there was a skinny little boy with ribs like an accordion snoring away on top of me, I couldn't really move," Mellberg snapped back. "And if it troubles you so much, why don't you try the door?"
Robert finally sensed an opportunity to get back onto equal footing. "Oh, I could if I wanted to," he said lazily. "I just thought that being closer, you may like to be the one to try it. After all, this is a very small cupboard and I cannot guarantee where I put my foot down."
Olof gulped audibly. For the first time Robert smiled. "Fine, then, I will do it," the Swede said irritably. Robert's smiled further widened. He felt hairy knees shift against his own as Olof - Mellberg - moved closer to the door, and unaccountably felt himself tense up. Until then, the only pairs of knees that had come into contact with his own off the pitch had been definitely not hairy, and this was a, well, novel experience.
Outside Freddie and Ashley were engaged in a whispered but heated tug-of-war over a boombox. "Oh, come on," Ashley was protesting. "If there was ever an excuse to play the Village People, this is it!"
"For the last time," Freddie sighed, "you are not going to play "Y M C A." Sylvian, back me up on this?"
Sylvian had fallen asleep on Thierry's shoulder. "Why do you need to play the Village People so badly?" Thierry yawned.
Ashley gulped. Freddie smirked.
"No, it's locked." Back inside the closet, Olof sighed irritably. "I guess at this point I would have to take a shot in the dark and ask whether you may actually have any ideas."
"You say that like you think I wouldn't," Robert accused him.
"That I do. But hey, I'm an optimist," Olof shrugged.
"You'd have to be playing for Villa," Robert retorted. Truth was, he had a lot of respect for the Birmingham outfit, well, present company and manager David O'Leary excepted, but he was in the mood where he'd fling out anything as an insult just to get the best of the defender. "So, why ask? Why bother?"
"Because I like to hear the sound of your voice," Olof smirked. Robert rolled his eyes. "So, do you have any ideas or am I stuck in here with you for the rest of the evening?"
"There might be something in this cupboard behind me," Robert said, carefully manoeuvring to the side of the compartment, his fingers running over it to get a better idea of what it was. His eyes widened in surprise - it was a minibar? He found the rubber strip separating the door from the storage compartment and slid his hand down to grasp the handle. He felt a thud as it connected with Mellberg's legs, and the blond cried out. "Now who screams like a girl?"
"You did that on purpose," Olof accused.
"No I didn't," Robert retorted. "But why should I care about your shins when you seem to have so little respect for mine?"
"I do care about your shins," Olof said.
"What?" Robert blinked. He couldn't have heard correctly. Surely Mellberg wasn't that type. Well, the defender had seemed "happy" when he woke up on top of him, but those sort of things could just happen automatically and have nothing to do with the present situation.
"Nothing," Olof said gruffly. "I just figured you must be an optimist too, to think you'll earn penalties for some of the dives you've done in the past."
It occurred to Robert that Olof was only trying to provoke a reaction, which was why he bit down his instinct to vehemently deny all charges. "I said that about two minutes ago and you've just thought of a comeback now?" he made his voice cheerful, as if praising a small child. "Good boy! Soon you may even need to consider a change of hair colour."
"You tackle like a girl," Olof declared.
"At least my tackles are honest ones," Robert rejoined, his hand feeling around in the refrigerator. Finally he found what he wanted. "Here. Drink and shut up."
"Only if you do the same," Olof retorted, but took the offered can and cracked it open. "Hey, this is only coke. Is this all the minibar has?"
"No," Robert replied. Strangely, he was beginning to enjoy himself. "But I'm getting the liquor."
"And why the hell is that?" the Swede retorted.
"Because I am smaller than you are," Robert grinned. "It will not be such a waste on me. Besides, I need a drink or two in order to be stuck in here with you. Now drink and be merry."
"Not bloody likely," Olof snapped. "I want some of what you're having."
"I don't think you'd want to know your sister that well," Robert said, struggling to keep a straight face. Sure, Olof couldn't see him, but he was sure any mirth in his expression would transfer itself to his voice.
"You watch your bloody mouth," Olof threatened.
"That would be physically impossible," Robert reasoned, downing the miniature bottle of brandy in several gulps. "If my mouth must be watched, it has to be by you."
Outside, Ashley yawned. "They're still talking," he observed. "A little less conversation, a little more action, people."
"Oh, they are just having a lover's tiff," Sylvian shrugged. "The best sex comes after those."
"Wiltord," Thierry begged. He wished for the first, and not the last time that evening, that he was somewhere else.
Freddie ended any further discussion of what exactly Robert and Mellberg were up to in that closet by popping open yet another bottle of champagne.
"Why the hell would I want to watch your mouth?" Olof demanded gruffly, but his palms were beginning to sweat. How much did that sneaky, sly, leggy - no, little, yes, that was the word he was searching for - Frenchman know? He couldn't possibly.
"You tell me," Robert said coolly.
"Tell you what?" Olof queried. Oh shit, he did know. He could sense the winger grinning in the dark. He was cleverer than he initially seemed. Bastard. "Well, if you're so desperate to get out of here, why haven't you been banging on the door screaming for help?"
"I haven't noticed you screaming for help either," Robert pointed out. Mellberg swore inwardly. "Personally, I have not been screaming because all of our team-mates would have left by now and the next event that happens here isn't until the cricket, which is not until June."
Oh. Dear. God. Surely they would have someone in to clean the place before then? Olof was beginning to panic. He didn't like being stuck in confined places at the best of times, especially with a sexy - smirking Frenchman. "June?" His voice came out a panicked squeak.
"Yes. Maybe," Robert shrugged, then noticed the leg next to his was trembling. "What is it now? Afraid the big bad girl tackler will beat you up?"
"No," Olof said, debating how much to tell his companion. Oh, what the hell. He had suffered enough humiliations already this evening. Including being responsible for Ljungberg's goal. And his - reaction - to Robert's nearness. "I do not like being in small, closed spaces. Haven't since I was a little boy and I went crawling around a rotting house with my friends, which collapsed on top of me. I was stuck there for almost ten hours before they finally got me out."
"Alone?" Robert asked.
"Yes," Olof confirmed. Why, oh why had he told him?
"I am sorry. I did not know," Robert said sincerely. Olof was surprised. He had expected scorn and amusement, but not this almost compassion. "I think you are doing very well, considering."
"Well, I'm not exactly alone, am I?' Mellberg said, then blanched at the - shit, there was really no other word for it - sentimental tone his voice had taken on. He could sense Robert pausing, assessing him. He knew too much.
"No, you're not," Robert said. "Definitely not." Olof could feel a furious flush creep up his face. And why was Robert so much closer? "So why, if you are so afraid of small spaces, did you not wake me up to try to open the door?"
"I didn't want to have to talk to you," Olof said, forcing some of the earlier harshness into his voice. He couldn't tell the dark-haired Frenchman that he had actually enjoyed having him on top of him.
"Really?" Robert, damn him, sounded amused. "Well, we are having a conversation now, and it is not so bad, isn't it?"
Olof ran his hands over his scalp, the short blond strands tickling his palms. "No, it's not," he admitted grudging.
For a moment both were silent. Outside Wiltord and co were growing restless. Both the alcohol and their patience were in short supply. Cole was mourning the absence of the minibar. Then, "I've changed my mind," Robert announced. "You can have a real drink."
Olof wasn't sure if that was such a good idea now. When he drank, he tended to get honest. But he wasn't sure how much longer he could deal with Robert's presence without something in his system. He heard the snap of a bottle's lid being twisted off. "Yes, you can have a drink," Robert repeated. "But it will be on my terms, not yours."
Before Olof had a chance to figure out what that meant, Robert put the opening of the bottle to his own lips, took a hasty swallow, then, with strength surprising from one so slender, hauled the Swede to his feet by the collar of his shirt and crushed his lips to his, mingling rum with saliva. And before he had a chance to figure out what that meant, he was kissing him back, claustrophobia completely forgotten.
Olof wasn't the best kisser Robert had ever experienced, and he certainly wasn't the person he had felt closest to, but he was one of the first men he had ever kissed and even if the technique wasn't perfect, the act in itself convinced him that what had been lacking from most of his earlier kissers was that he wasn't kissing a man. He couldn't remember who had put his tongue into whose mouth, but he didn't give a shit. And neither could he recall the exact moment Mellberg had lifted him off the ground, completely supporting his weight and his unconsciously wrapping his legs around Mellberg's waist. He was only happy that they had ended up there.
Neither heard the key clicking in the lock until now-unwelcome light flooded the compartment. Both blinked and stared dumbly back at the intruders, Mellberg in his shock not thinking to take his hands off Robert's arse. Wiltord and Cole were both grinning back at them, Ljungberg coyly trying to look elsewhere and Henry looking distinctly uncomfortable. "We heard the yelling stop so we figured something must have happened," Wiltord said. "And then I remembered that I've yet to make a contribution to the end-of-season slideshow. Say cheese, little boys." His hand, which until then neither had noticed was behind his back, came out and snapped a shot at them.
Several minutes later Freddie, Ashley and Thierry were on the upmost piers of Wembly Stadium, blithely drinking champagne and watching as a shrieking Sylvian was chased around below by an irate Robert and Mellberg. "Always thought that little bastard didn't do enough running on the pitch," Ashley observed.
The End