you don't love life as long as you live.
Companion fic, in the same 'verse as this.
Five stories Sheva doesn't mean to tell Kakà
1.
Chernobyl.
He says, "Sometimes, it feels like nothing can be fixed. That the world can't be fixed. Somedays, I think there's no saving us anymore. From any of it."
Kakà, Kakà feels that, that dread, sometimes, when he talks to God.
2.
This is, maybe, a story about stories.
Ricky asks, "What is a story anyway? What is it? Must it be a tale with beginning, middle and end? Or can it be a feeling."
Sheva says it can be a sentence, a second, a picture, rain on your face and grass between your toes, skin on skin. Yes, it can be a feeling.
Sheva tells him about the origin of feeling.
About the first man. No, the first creature. The first living thing.
They didn't have them, didn't have feelings.
And they demanded them. They wrestled them from the earth, from God, from the clouds, the Sun, the sky.
They said it was like living in death.
This is how man gets feeling: he demands it.
And it is the only thing as endless as the universe. It doesn't even belong to it. It exceeds it, outlasts it.
That's the problem, he says, now: too few of us demand it.
3.
There's one he never meant him to hear.
Sheva meets little Luca two weeks after he's back in Milan, and maybe there's something strange about that, considering the first thing he did when he did arrive was come to Ricky's front door. They don't talk about it though. It's just one of those things that has to happen whenever it does.
It's evening. They have tea, and it's normal. It's so normal, it could've been that - that he never left. And no, no, he's really not going to do this. It's not the same. But it's okay. It's fine. Everything's fine.
When Sheva finishes his cup, he asks, "Would you like to hold him?"
And Sheva nods, says, "Okay," and it's soothing, maybe.
And he doesn't turn away, doesn't pretend it's anything it's not. It's Sheva and his son. His Sheva and his son.
"Why don't you take him upstairs? I'll be there in a second."
"Okay." He lets Luca squeeze his finger one last time; Sheva smiles, and when he leaves, Ricky turns around, eyes closing, and smiles too.
He tries to take his time. Goes into the kitchen, washes his hands, looks out the window.
Somehow, he ends up in the doorway of the nursery, standing quietly, watching Sheva holding his son, telling him a story. A story he's not supposed to hear. A story, maybe, Sheva was never supposed to tell.
Sheva puts him to bed about ten minuters later, joins Kakà like he knew he was there all along.
"You told me he likes stories." And oh. He did. Yes, he did. "That he reacted at all the good parts. You were right."
Sheva says, "He's going to be so amazing when he grows up." Kakà hears, Like you. Just like you. (He doesn't want him to be. Maybe.)
"So, what was the story about?"
Sheva doesn't take his eyes away from the crib, says, "You know what."
Kakà starts to catch his breath, and maybe his hand brushes Sheva's now. One finger. Two.
Sheva looks at him, and he pulls away, smiles. And he shouldn't. He shouldn't have. He shouldn't. He shouldn't want this. This shouldn't be what he believes in.
4.
There's one he doesn't hear. Sheva doesn't know if he hears. He doesn't hang up either.
(He's asleep. He doesn't hear. He sleeps, he sleeps for the first time in weeks.)
It's not about a boy who's forgotten to dream because he's gotten everything he could possibly want. (It's not about a boy who can't sleep because he lost it all.)
Sheva didn't ask him, What did you dream of before you met me? Did you dream of anything at all?
It's not about the boy who lived the dream; it's about the one who never quite felt he deserved it.
Sheva tells him the truth, tells him that he's a coward maybe, tells him that the world he lives in is a shallow one because anything else, anything real, hurts too much. He knows about real.
Sheva tells him everything, and he doesn't hear. They don't talk about that night again.
5.
This is a love story.
This is Milan.
This is the first time Sheva talks to Kakà, the goldenboy, the twenty-two year old, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.
He's not a cliché, not a choirboy, but something about him makes Sheva want to confess.
He says, "I came here the same as you. I came here because I had to. I came here because the past means something but the future means so much more. I came here for me, but I didn't stay for me. You don't love many things as long as you live. You forget some. You forget youth. You don't love life as long as you live. You will love this, though. You'll love football; you'll love Milan."
He's right. They both do.
Five stories Sheva doesn't mean to tell Kakà
1.
Chernobyl.
He says, "Sometimes, it feels like nothing can be fixed. That the world can't be fixed. Somedays, I think there's no saving us anymore. From any of it."
Kakà, Kakà feels that, that dread, sometimes, when he talks to God.
2.
This is, maybe, a story about stories.
Ricky asks, "What is a story anyway? What is it? Must it be a tale with beginning, middle and end? Or can it be a feeling."
Sheva says it can be a sentence, a second, a picture, rain on your face and grass between your toes, skin on skin. Yes, it can be a feeling.
Sheva tells him about the origin of feeling.
About the first man. No, the first creature. The first living thing.
They didn't have them, didn't have feelings.
And they demanded them. They wrestled them from the earth, from God, from the clouds, the Sun, the sky.
They said it was like living in death.
This is how man gets feeling: he demands it.
And it is the only thing as endless as the universe. It doesn't even belong to it. It exceeds it, outlasts it.
That's the problem, he says, now: too few of us demand it.
3.
There's one he never meant him to hear.
Sheva meets little Luca two weeks after he's back in Milan, and maybe there's something strange about that, considering the first thing he did when he did arrive was come to Ricky's front door. They don't talk about it though. It's just one of those things that has to happen whenever it does.
It's evening. They have tea, and it's normal. It's so normal, it could've been that - that he never left. And no, no, he's really not going to do this. It's not the same. But it's okay. It's fine. Everything's fine.
When Sheva finishes his cup, he asks, "Would you like to hold him?"
And Sheva nods, says, "Okay," and it's soothing, maybe.
And he doesn't turn away, doesn't pretend it's anything it's not. It's Sheva and his son. His Sheva and his son.
"Why don't you take him upstairs? I'll be there in a second."
"Okay." He lets Luca squeeze his finger one last time; Sheva smiles, and when he leaves, Ricky turns around, eyes closing, and smiles too.
He tries to take his time. Goes into the kitchen, washes his hands, looks out the window.
Somehow, he ends up in the doorway of the nursery, standing quietly, watching Sheva holding his son, telling him a story. A story he's not supposed to hear. A story, maybe, Sheva was never supposed to tell.
Sheva puts him to bed about ten minuters later, joins Kakà like he knew he was there all along.
"You told me he likes stories." And oh. He did. Yes, he did. "That he reacted at all the good parts. You were right."
Sheva says, "He's going to be so amazing when he grows up." Kakà hears, Like you. Just like you. (He doesn't want him to be. Maybe.)
"So, what was the story about?"
Sheva doesn't take his eyes away from the crib, says, "You know what."
Kakà starts to catch his breath, and maybe his hand brushes Sheva's now. One finger. Two.
Sheva looks at him, and he pulls away, smiles. And he shouldn't. He shouldn't have. He shouldn't. He shouldn't want this. This shouldn't be what he believes in.
4.
There's one he doesn't hear. Sheva doesn't know if he hears. He doesn't hang up either.
(He's asleep. He doesn't hear. He sleeps, he sleeps for the first time in weeks.)
It's not about a boy who's forgotten to dream because he's gotten everything he could possibly want. (It's not about a boy who can't sleep because he lost it all.)
Sheva didn't ask him, What did you dream of before you met me? Did you dream of anything at all?
It's not about the boy who lived the dream; it's about the one who never quite felt he deserved it.
Sheva tells him the truth, tells him that he's a coward maybe, tells him that the world he lives in is a shallow one because anything else, anything real, hurts too much. He knows about real.
Sheva tells him everything, and he doesn't hear. They don't talk about that night again.
5.
This is a love story.
This is Milan.
This is the first time Sheva talks to Kakà, the goldenboy, the twenty-two year old, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.
He's not a cliché, not a choirboy, but something about him makes Sheva want to confess.
He says, "I came here the same as you. I came here because I had to. I came here because the past means something but the future means so much more. I came here for me, but I didn't stay for me. You don't love many things as long as you live. You forget some. You forget youth. You don't love life as long as you live. You will love this, though. You'll love football; you'll love Milan."
He's right. They both do.