Fic: All is Not Lost
Title: All is Not Lost
Pairing: Daniel Agger/Fernando Torres
Other Characters: Martin Škrtel, Maxi Rodríguez
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Any fictitious relationships described within is true in the land of imagination only.
Summary: After the disappointing result against United, some players just need a bit of time to cool off.
A/Ns: I know Martin is supposed to be back soon, but for this fic, I've taken liberties as to how injured he still is.
Feedback: Would be greatly appreciated! Good/bad, either is fine. Thanks!
Word Count: 2321
All is Not Lost
Daniel Agger stalked off the pitch after exchanging brief handshakes with the opposition. He needed to get away. Needed to give himself some time to cool off before he did something stupid. The smouldering anger swirled menacingly, coming from a place deep inside him. His brows knitted together, forming creases of unease on his forehead. The next person who spoke to him, he would just destroy. The rest of the Liverpool squad, each too disheartened by the recent result, left him be.
* * * * * *
Maxi Rodríguez unwounded the bandage from his head. He grimaced slightly as the ache retuned when he nudged the wound. Catching sight of a despondent Torres walking towards his direction, Maxi raised a hand in greeting.
“Hey,” Maxi called out. Torres looked his way and began to approach him. “Hey, thanks for… you know,” Maxi pointed at his head. When Torres furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, Maxi clarified, “Thanks for talking to Neville when he did this to me.”
The haze cleared momentarily from Torres’s soulful eyes. “Oh, no problem. We look out of each other, remember?”
Maxi did remember. Back when they both wore the red and white stripes of Atlético de Madrid, they had looked out for each other. He was glad they continued it now.
“Are you okay?” Fernando pointed at the new bandage that Maxi was trying to wrap clumsily around his own head. “Here, let me help with that.” Taking hold of the loose end, Fernando wounded the white material firmly around Maxi’s forehead, tucking the stray end into itself. “There, all done.” Fernando smiled, giving Maxi’s now bandaged head a light pat.
Maxi reached out to stop Fernando’s retreat but the Spaniard gave an almost unperceivable shake of his head. He was tired, not just physically, but all over. Emotionally, mentally. Now was not the time. Besides, there was someone else he should be seeing.
* * * * * *
He was cramming his gear into his bag with a force that was almost cruel. Throwing the half opened zipper bag to the ground roughly, Daniel Agger desperately needed to let off some steam. He needed something, someone to vent upon. How had something that started so wonderfully, end up so disappointing? He replayed the goals in his mind; the first, he just could not see as a penalty. A free kick, sure, outside of the box but never a penalty. And Pepe was so close. That first save gave him a flash of hope, only to see it buried when the ball did just that, into the net. The second? The second, he had to admit, was a piece of good set up from United. But damn it, as a defender, he should be able to do something about situations like these. He threw a punch at the brick wall angrily, the heat of the moment masking any pain he might have inflicted onto his knuckles. They will smart later, as would the tiredness in his legs. He didn’t care. Right now, the biggest hurt was in his chest.
He knew Torres would come. Fernando always did. They knew each other well enough to anticipate these meetings. After all, Fernando had learnt to read him accurately. And naïvely, Nando would always offer to dissolve that hatred that boiled inside of him. But today, today he didn’t want to see Fernando.
“Fuck off, Torres.” Daniel said, his face to the wall. He didn’t have to turn around to know that Fernando was standing a few feet away.
“Don’t be like this, Danny,” Fernando murmured. He slipped into the comforting tone he normally reserved for situations like these. “You’re angry, I’m angry, everyone’s angry. We all know we could have done better.” Fernando leaned into the wall desolately, staring at the ink that decorated Daniel’s back.
Daniel wanted to say so much. There was so much wrong with the current squad. There was so much waiting to be improved on and yet in each match, each training session, they barely brush the surface of any of it. The frustration of the stuttering halt in their advancement angered him more than the loss to United. It wasn’t meant to be like this. As a professional footballer, everyone strived to reach their true potential, to become the best. Why was it proving so hard to do in this club?
Approaching Daniel cautiously, Fernando placed a hand tentatively on Danny’s back. His fingers trailed down to settle in the slight curve of his waist, the whisper of bony hip. To his surprise, Daniel shifted away from his touch.
Turning to face the Spaniard, Daniel gritted his teeth as if by not opening his mouth, he can keep all the demons that threatened to escape captive. Finally, choosing the lesser of two evils, Daniel asked, “Why must you insist on talking yourself into the book?”
“I do not insist on it, but surely you can see I am getting no protection at all,” Fernando reasoned.
“I don’t care,” Daniel replied, harshly, “Stop getting yourself booked. And stop feeling sorry for yourself. Grow up! You just turned twenty-six yesterday. Start acting your age.” Daniel shook his head, remembering the lost opportunities, “I still can’t believe you fluffed those chances you got in the second half.”
“Fuck off, like you could have done better.” Fernando was hurt at the critique.
“Maybe not, but you could have. Should have.” Daniel grimaced as his knuckles began to let him know they were hurting, “And at least I tried to do something. The only reason why I had to resort to trying those long range shots was because there were fuck all people to pass to. Where were any of you “up field” players, eh? Having a nice nap?”
Fernando winced, remembering the words that Daniel had flung towards them during the match after such an attempt. He had almost felt the punch behind the shout. “You didn’t have to yell at us,” he complained weakly.
Daniel just looked at Torres incredulously. “Fucking yes, I did have to. Did I want to be in the same situation with a ball at my feet and no one ready to receive it? Oh wait a minute, it did happen.” The sarcasm was dripping from his voice.
Sometimes, Fernando hated how Daniel knew just the right buttons to push. Drawing strength from a place he could never find when on the pitch, Fernando straightened up and stared Daniel in the eye. Refusing to be bullied, Torres said firmly, “You know what? I am sick of being held responsible for the doings of the entire team. That was part of the reason why I left Atléti.” He paused, started to say something else, and hesitated. Then finally, he sighed, “I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.”
So he walked away.
* * * * * * * * *
Martin Škrtel sat in his large leather chair, his injured foot propped up on a footstool. He felt extremely lazy just sitting on his backside the whole day, but bones need time. He’d been cursing his injury from the moment he’d sustained it but no manner of insults or swearing made any difference to the speed in which he recovered. It did, however, improve his mood somewhat.
When his doorbell rang in that particular rhythm, he knew who was standing on the other side of the door. Heaving himself up onto his crutches, he hopped his way to the door and let the Dane in without a word.
Judging by the look of the defender, there was something more than just the match that was bothering him. Škrtel sank back into the chair he occupied before the interruption and placed his crutches neatly on the floor next to the chair. He crossed his arms, tucking his hands under his armpits. He looked up at Daniel who had just stood in the middle of the room and asked, “Do you need anything?”
When Daniel didn’t reply, Martin studied his friend more closely. Noticing the scratchy redness of the graze on Daniel’s right hand, Martin knew just what Dan had done. He struggled to his feet with difficulty and leaned heavily on one crutch. Taking Daniel’s injured hand in his own, he traced the edges of the wounds lightly with his fingertips. “Let’s get you cleaned up, okay?” Martin suggested.
“Leave it be,” Daniel snapped, snatching his hand back from Martin’s grasp. It was strange, this need to feel irritated. He was starting to consciously feed the fire in his belly, as if he wanted to nurture the hatred instead of relaxing and letting it go.
“Whoa,” Martin backed off hastily, “Gee, we’re a live wire today.” He hobbled back to his seat and watched the other defender warily.
Martin Škrtel liked silence. He loved it. The lack of noise usually comforted him and allowed him to think whatever thoughts he had without distraction. But with Daniel seething in the middle of his room, it was hard to not feel oddly in danger. Still, he knew what he needed to do, so settling back into the seat which was now cold from his long absence, Martin waited.
Finally, Daniel’s heated displeasure began to disseminate. It was as if he’d burnt out his anger reserves and by doing so, had released himself of the chains that had ensnared him to its purpose. He looked around at his surroundings. He needn’t have done for he already knew where he was. His place of comfort when he had lost everyone else had always been at Martin’s place. Martin, who was so similar to him, yet also a polar opposite, understood him in a way that transcended any emotional hardship. They never acted on the potential between them, though. Partly because they are afraid of what could be, but also because they did not want to destroy what they already had. Their relationship of give and take worked well and besides, for Daniel, there was Fernando.
Right on cue, Martin’s voice floated up over the back of his chair, “You should go and apologise, Danny.” He didn’t have to say to whom, they both knew.
Daniel nodded mutely. This was what was best between the two friends; this intangible brotherhood of support and mate-ship.
And as Daniel let himself out of Martin’s house, the Slovakian called out after him, “Good luck!”
* * * * * * * *
There was something alluring about the blonde striker that Daniel could never work out. He didn’t know if it was the beguiling way Fernando’s eyes could look at him or the skilfulness of the Spaniard, in all departments. But he could never get enough of Fernando Torres. Even after episodes of heated arguments or disappointments, they always found their way back together.
When the two Liverpool players tussled their way blindly across Fernando’s living room, their mouths busy kissing, they forgot about the match, they forgot about the problems they had, they forgot that they might never do this again. Fernando slipped his hand around Daniel’s waist then allowed them to venture up, under the Dane’s shirt. He felt his own shirt being tugged out of his trousers impatiently. Fingers fumbled at the zippers impeding their way, their own bodies pressing into one another making the task more difficult for themselves.
Walking Fernando backwards, Daniel moved the pair of them around Fernando’s house towards the bedroom with purposeful direction. The two young men fell onto the bed, their limbs tangled in a sexual frenzy that frequently accompanied their couplings. Finally finding themselves fitting together again, Fernando’s strong thighs encircled Danny’s hips tightly. The bed creaked revealingly with every movement they made and they held each other close, as if they needed to melt into each other’s body. Their beautiful, athletic bodies which so many around the world admired were traced lovingly by fingers which knew their landscape well. Each muscular ridge, each contour of their anatomy was kissed passionately in their quest to find each other again, and to wash away the discord between them.
Finding peace in forgiveness, striker and defender lay back under the thin covers, their hearts pounding from their recent exertion. Fernando’s hand found Daniel’s in amongst the mess of blankets and they laid there, side by side, breathing in each other’s distinctly familiar scent.
“Did I say I was sorry?” Daniel said, his eyes on the ceiling.
Turning over to snuggle up to Daniel, Fernando kissed the pale, soft skin tenderly. His lips still touching Danny’s side, he whispered, “You have now.”
Hoping to make the most of the pleasant situation, Daniel asked jokingly, “You’re not still thinking about leaving, are you?”
When Fernando fell silent at the question, Daniel sat up worriedly, the bed-sheets spilling down his chest into a puddle in his lap. “No, you can’t.” he breathed.
Fernando turned away. His hair flopped forwards into his face but he resisted the urge to tuck them back. He needed that shield of hair right now. Drawing his knees up to his chest, Fernando Torres looked more like an unsettled teenager than a man of twenty six. Peeking out behind his blonde hair, he said softly, uncertainly, “I don’t know. I don’t know where I am going.”
“So stay, stay and fight with the rest of us,” Daniel reached over and brushed the hair from Fernando’s face. Leaning down, he pressed his lips against Fernando’s, and ran his thumb across the splattering of freckles.
Torres did not say anything. Instead, he took Daniel’s hand again and kissed the raw knuckles gently. He smiled dreamily at Daniel but still, he was silent. He could not answer Daniel’s request for he himself did not know which path he would be walking in a few months’ time. He did know, however, that for now, he was content to be right where he was.
Pairing: Daniel Agger/Fernando Torres
Other Characters: Martin Škrtel, Maxi Rodríguez
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Any fictitious relationships described within is true in the land of imagination only.
Summary: After the disappointing result against United, some players just need a bit of time to cool off.
A/Ns: I know Martin is supposed to be back soon, but for this fic, I've taken liberties as to how injured he still is.
Feedback: Would be greatly appreciated! Good/bad, either is fine. Thanks!
Word Count: 2321
All is Not Lost
Daniel Agger stalked off the pitch after exchanging brief handshakes with the opposition. He needed to get away. Needed to give himself some time to cool off before he did something stupid. The smouldering anger swirled menacingly, coming from a place deep inside him. His brows knitted together, forming creases of unease on his forehead. The next person who spoke to him, he would just destroy. The rest of the Liverpool squad, each too disheartened by the recent result, left him be.
* * * * * *
Maxi Rodríguez unwounded the bandage from his head. He grimaced slightly as the ache retuned when he nudged the wound. Catching sight of a despondent Torres walking towards his direction, Maxi raised a hand in greeting.
“Hey,” Maxi called out. Torres looked his way and began to approach him. “Hey, thanks for… you know,” Maxi pointed at his head. When Torres furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, Maxi clarified, “Thanks for talking to Neville when he did this to me.”
The haze cleared momentarily from Torres’s soulful eyes. “Oh, no problem. We look out of each other, remember?”
Maxi did remember. Back when they both wore the red and white stripes of Atlético de Madrid, they had looked out for each other. He was glad they continued it now.
“Are you okay?” Fernando pointed at the new bandage that Maxi was trying to wrap clumsily around his own head. “Here, let me help with that.” Taking hold of the loose end, Fernando wounded the white material firmly around Maxi’s forehead, tucking the stray end into itself. “There, all done.” Fernando smiled, giving Maxi’s now bandaged head a light pat.
Maxi reached out to stop Fernando’s retreat but the Spaniard gave an almost unperceivable shake of his head. He was tired, not just physically, but all over. Emotionally, mentally. Now was not the time. Besides, there was someone else he should be seeing.
* * * * * *
He was cramming his gear into his bag with a force that was almost cruel. Throwing the half opened zipper bag to the ground roughly, Daniel Agger desperately needed to let off some steam. He needed something, someone to vent upon. How had something that started so wonderfully, end up so disappointing? He replayed the goals in his mind; the first, he just could not see as a penalty. A free kick, sure, outside of the box but never a penalty. And Pepe was so close. That first save gave him a flash of hope, only to see it buried when the ball did just that, into the net. The second? The second, he had to admit, was a piece of good set up from United. But damn it, as a defender, he should be able to do something about situations like these. He threw a punch at the brick wall angrily, the heat of the moment masking any pain he might have inflicted onto his knuckles. They will smart later, as would the tiredness in his legs. He didn’t care. Right now, the biggest hurt was in his chest.
He knew Torres would come. Fernando always did. They knew each other well enough to anticipate these meetings. After all, Fernando had learnt to read him accurately. And naïvely, Nando would always offer to dissolve that hatred that boiled inside of him. But today, today he didn’t want to see Fernando.
“Fuck off, Torres.” Daniel said, his face to the wall. He didn’t have to turn around to know that Fernando was standing a few feet away.
“Don’t be like this, Danny,” Fernando murmured. He slipped into the comforting tone he normally reserved for situations like these. “You’re angry, I’m angry, everyone’s angry. We all know we could have done better.” Fernando leaned into the wall desolately, staring at the ink that decorated Daniel’s back.
Daniel wanted to say so much. There was so much wrong with the current squad. There was so much waiting to be improved on and yet in each match, each training session, they barely brush the surface of any of it. The frustration of the stuttering halt in their advancement angered him more than the loss to United. It wasn’t meant to be like this. As a professional footballer, everyone strived to reach their true potential, to become the best. Why was it proving so hard to do in this club?
Approaching Daniel cautiously, Fernando placed a hand tentatively on Danny’s back. His fingers trailed down to settle in the slight curve of his waist, the whisper of bony hip. To his surprise, Daniel shifted away from his touch.
Turning to face the Spaniard, Daniel gritted his teeth as if by not opening his mouth, he can keep all the demons that threatened to escape captive. Finally, choosing the lesser of two evils, Daniel asked, “Why must you insist on talking yourself into the book?”
“I do not insist on it, but surely you can see I am getting no protection at all,” Fernando reasoned.
“I don’t care,” Daniel replied, harshly, “Stop getting yourself booked. And stop feeling sorry for yourself. Grow up! You just turned twenty-six yesterday. Start acting your age.” Daniel shook his head, remembering the lost opportunities, “I still can’t believe you fluffed those chances you got in the second half.”
“Fuck off, like you could have done better.” Fernando was hurt at the critique.
“Maybe not, but you could have. Should have.” Daniel grimaced as his knuckles began to let him know they were hurting, “And at least I tried to do something. The only reason why I had to resort to trying those long range shots was because there were fuck all people to pass to. Where were any of you “up field” players, eh? Having a nice nap?”
Fernando winced, remembering the words that Daniel had flung towards them during the match after such an attempt. He had almost felt the punch behind the shout. “You didn’t have to yell at us,” he complained weakly.
Daniel just looked at Torres incredulously. “Fucking yes, I did have to. Did I want to be in the same situation with a ball at my feet and no one ready to receive it? Oh wait a minute, it did happen.” The sarcasm was dripping from his voice.
Sometimes, Fernando hated how Daniel knew just the right buttons to push. Drawing strength from a place he could never find when on the pitch, Fernando straightened up and stared Daniel in the eye. Refusing to be bullied, Torres said firmly, “You know what? I am sick of being held responsible for the doings of the entire team. That was part of the reason why I left Atléti.” He paused, started to say something else, and hesitated. Then finally, he sighed, “I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.”
So he walked away.
* * * * * * * * *
Martin Škrtel sat in his large leather chair, his injured foot propped up on a footstool. He felt extremely lazy just sitting on his backside the whole day, but bones need time. He’d been cursing his injury from the moment he’d sustained it but no manner of insults or swearing made any difference to the speed in which he recovered. It did, however, improve his mood somewhat.
When his doorbell rang in that particular rhythm, he knew who was standing on the other side of the door. Heaving himself up onto his crutches, he hopped his way to the door and let the Dane in without a word.
Judging by the look of the defender, there was something more than just the match that was bothering him. Škrtel sank back into the chair he occupied before the interruption and placed his crutches neatly on the floor next to the chair. He crossed his arms, tucking his hands under his armpits. He looked up at Daniel who had just stood in the middle of the room and asked, “Do you need anything?”
When Daniel didn’t reply, Martin studied his friend more closely. Noticing the scratchy redness of the graze on Daniel’s right hand, Martin knew just what Dan had done. He struggled to his feet with difficulty and leaned heavily on one crutch. Taking Daniel’s injured hand in his own, he traced the edges of the wounds lightly with his fingertips. “Let’s get you cleaned up, okay?” Martin suggested.
“Leave it be,” Daniel snapped, snatching his hand back from Martin’s grasp. It was strange, this need to feel irritated. He was starting to consciously feed the fire in his belly, as if he wanted to nurture the hatred instead of relaxing and letting it go.
“Whoa,” Martin backed off hastily, “Gee, we’re a live wire today.” He hobbled back to his seat and watched the other defender warily.
Martin Škrtel liked silence. He loved it. The lack of noise usually comforted him and allowed him to think whatever thoughts he had without distraction. But with Daniel seething in the middle of his room, it was hard to not feel oddly in danger. Still, he knew what he needed to do, so settling back into the seat which was now cold from his long absence, Martin waited.
Finally, Daniel’s heated displeasure began to disseminate. It was as if he’d burnt out his anger reserves and by doing so, had released himself of the chains that had ensnared him to its purpose. He looked around at his surroundings. He needn’t have done for he already knew where he was. His place of comfort when he had lost everyone else had always been at Martin’s place. Martin, who was so similar to him, yet also a polar opposite, understood him in a way that transcended any emotional hardship. They never acted on the potential between them, though. Partly because they are afraid of what could be, but also because they did not want to destroy what they already had. Their relationship of give and take worked well and besides, for Daniel, there was Fernando.
Right on cue, Martin’s voice floated up over the back of his chair, “You should go and apologise, Danny.” He didn’t have to say to whom, they both knew.
Daniel nodded mutely. This was what was best between the two friends; this intangible brotherhood of support and mate-ship.
And as Daniel let himself out of Martin’s house, the Slovakian called out after him, “Good luck!”
* * * * * * * *
There was something alluring about the blonde striker that Daniel could never work out. He didn’t know if it was the beguiling way Fernando’s eyes could look at him or the skilfulness of the Spaniard, in all departments. But he could never get enough of Fernando Torres. Even after episodes of heated arguments or disappointments, they always found their way back together.
When the two Liverpool players tussled their way blindly across Fernando’s living room, their mouths busy kissing, they forgot about the match, they forgot about the problems they had, they forgot that they might never do this again. Fernando slipped his hand around Daniel’s waist then allowed them to venture up, under the Dane’s shirt. He felt his own shirt being tugged out of his trousers impatiently. Fingers fumbled at the zippers impeding their way, their own bodies pressing into one another making the task more difficult for themselves.
Walking Fernando backwards, Daniel moved the pair of them around Fernando’s house towards the bedroom with purposeful direction. The two young men fell onto the bed, their limbs tangled in a sexual frenzy that frequently accompanied their couplings. Finally finding themselves fitting together again, Fernando’s strong thighs encircled Danny’s hips tightly. The bed creaked revealingly with every movement they made and they held each other close, as if they needed to melt into each other’s body. Their beautiful, athletic bodies which so many around the world admired were traced lovingly by fingers which knew their landscape well. Each muscular ridge, each contour of their anatomy was kissed passionately in their quest to find each other again, and to wash away the discord between them.
Finding peace in forgiveness, striker and defender lay back under the thin covers, their hearts pounding from their recent exertion. Fernando’s hand found Daniel’s in amongst the mess of blankets and they laid there, side by side, breathing in each other’s distinctly familiar scent.
“Did I say I was sorry?” Daniel said, his eyes on the ceiling.
Turning over to snuggle up to Daniel, Fernando kissed the pale, soft skin tenderly. His lips still touching Danny’s side, he whispered, “You have now.”
Hoping to make the most of the pleasant situation, Daniel asked jokingly, “You’re not still thinking about leaving, are you?”
When Fernando fell silent at the question, Daniel sat up worriedly, the bed-sheets spilling down his chest into a puddle in his lap. “No, you can’t.” he breathed.
Fernando turned away. His hair flopped forwards into his face but he resisted the urge to tuck them back. He needed that shield of hair right now. Drawing his knees up to his chest, Fernando Torres looked more like an unsettled teenager than a man of twenty six. Peeking out behind his blonde hair, he said softly, uncertainly, “I don’t know. I don’t know where I am going.”
“So stay, stay and fight with the rest of us,” Daniel reached over and brushed the hair from Fernando’s face. Leaning down, he pressed his lips against Fernando’s, and ran his thumb across the splattering of freckles.
Torres did not say anything. Instead, he took Daniel’s hand again and kissed the raw knuckles gently. He smiled dreamily at Daniel but still, he was silent. He could not answer Daniel’s request for he himself did not know which path he would be walking in a few months’ time. He did know, however, that for now, he was content to be right where he was.