rps: to leave it behind: daniel agger/martin skrtel: (1/1)
title; to leave it behind
author; fiveto_midnight
rating; pg
fandom; football rps
warnings; not much
pairing(s); daniel agger/martin skrtel (pre-slash), lucas leiva
word count; 873
disclaimer; nope. don't own a thing here.
notes; for theosakansun, for whom I promised I’d give these a shot. this isn’t exactly as I imagined it to be, but I hope you like it nonetheless bb! do ignore the title’s corniness, I couldn’t find anything better ahaha.
summary; summaries are hard. daniel is a perfectionist, martin is however only being honest.
There’s a blur of paramedics in red and black crowding the box, all around Daniel. Prickles of pain pierce the numbness that’s throbbing in his left cheek and in his forehead. It doesn’t matter; he has to get back into the game.
He spits saliva thick with blood into the grass, rolls his shoulders and shakes his head at the paramedic who wants to ship him down to the bench. He can’t, they have to get these three points.
He gets back up again, the world swimming just barely in his peripheral. He feels next to nothing, but everything’s relative. Doesn’t matter, he can play.
Daniel flexes his fingers, deep breath curling on his tongue like it’s heavy. The sunlight stab at his retinas, too sharp across the torn up pitch. Anfield is a slow murmur of sound; Daniel wants it back at full volume. He doesn’t want to be the one disrupting everything, wasting time.
The game resumes, he glares at Martin across the field who gives him a doubting glance, brow furrowed.
He has to be steadied off at half time by the same paramedics who wanted him off the first time. He’s got a few raw streaks over elbows, forearms and knees, and two chipped teeth. Daniel clenches them anyway, feels a jolt of pain through his gums. It could’ve been way worse, and he’s annoyed he can’t be out there.
The game ends in a draw, and Daniel joins his teammates down towards the locker room. Fernando looks frustrated just behind Stevie, who looks collected, nodding occasionally, upholding their quiet discussion with an even calm Daniel admires in his captain.
He claps Pepe’s shoulder, and nods at Jamie in bypassing, but he rocks back on his heels until Martin comes up beside him. The Slovakian smiles lopsidedly at him, smallish, but he looks mostly frustrated, mirroring the majority of the team.
Daniel bumps shoulders with him carefully, his head still doesn’t feel quite right, and he feels like somebody decided to drive a couple of screws through his gums.
“We didn’t lose,” he offers. It’s weak, for both of them, but someone has to say it.
Martin looks at him, shrugs, “No, we didn’t. How are you feeling?”
Daniel sinks down onto an empty bench, the running water in the showers and the voices bouncing in there loud. Martin sits down beside him. Still radiating warmth, his long sleeves damp with sweat, the red of his jersey flecked with green patches.
“I’m fine. Been through worse, it’s worse not being able to get out there again, you know? One small thing, and everything goes down the drain.” He zips down the jacket he’d shrugged on previously, shirt and everything still on. He knows he sounds pessimistic, like it’s shit, maybe it is, it wasn’t anything Top Four, but it was still two points down the drain and Daniel might’ve been able to change that.
Martin snorts beside him, and Daniel glances up at him as the centre back pulls off his shirt, his back and shoulders littered with small angry red marks. He’s not surprised, yet he reaches out, fingers tracing the outlines of the Slovakian’s shoulder blades, the hitches in his spine.
Martin rolls his shoulders, but not as to shrug Daniel off. He takes it as a signal to keep going, more so when he steps backwards, towards Daniel.
“Sometimes you’re just shit at seeing the upside to everything, you know that? Be happy it’s two teeth and not your other foot.”
Daniel traces a tattoo down Martin’s inner arm, eyes trained on the loops and figures the ink forms. It’s not like they do this every day, he might blame it on the real knock to the skull he’s gotten, anything, nonetheless he lets it firmly slip that he doesn’t even mind this.
The whole fingertips slipping over skin, nails catching in the crook of an elbow, over a rib when he changes direction, eyes shameless on the slope of Martin’s shoulders, the small of his back, thing.
Wet feet are all over the floor, and Daniel startles out of, whatever the fuck it is he’s doing, as Lucas rounds the corner, hair dripping into his face and down his nose as he blinks furiously to see where he’s going.
“Careful, don’t know about you but personally, chipped teeth hurts like a bitch,” Daniel calls to the Brazilian, good humour for whatever he can make of it.
Lucas looks up, shaking fringe out of his eyes, but he laughs, “I wouldn’t worry about the one who is still standing on both feet?” he replies, accent thick, but familiar to Daniel. It’s welcome, Lucas’ positivity, right now.
Most of the team ducks out from behind the corner, and the air in general seems fairly cleared. Only Fernando is, of course, remaining in the shower, as Martin grabs a towel from beside Daniel. The Slovakian pauses, breath warm against Daniel’s cheek.
“Thanks, you know,” he says, beating Martin to saying whatever it is he was about to say.
He straightens up, shrugging, looking faintly out of place, almost uncomfortable, “For calling you out on being the fucking perfectionist you are, Daniel?” but he’s smirking, and Daniel makes a swipe for his bicep, chuckling.
author; fiveto_midnight
rating; pg
fandom; football rps
warnings; not much
pairing(s); daniel agger/martin skrtel (pre-slash), lucas leiva
word count; 873
disclaimer; nope. don't own a thing here.
notes; for theosakansun, for whom I promised I’d give these a shot. this isn’t exactly as I imagined it to be, but I hope you like it nonetheless bb! do ignore the title’s corniness, I couldn’t find anything better ahaha.
summary; summaries are hard. daniel is a perfectionist, martin is however only being honest.
There’s a blur of paramedics in red and black crowding the box, all around Daniel. Prickles of pain pierce the numbness that’s throbbing in his left cheek and in his forehead. It doesn’t matter; he has to get back into the game.
He spits saliva thick with blood into the grass, rolls his shoulders and shakes his head at the paramedic who wants to ship him down to the bench. He can’t, they have to get these three points.
He gets back up again, the world swimming just barely in his peripheral. He feels next to nothing, but everything’s relative. Doesn’t matter, he can play.
Daniel flexes his fingers, deep breath curling on his tongue like it’s heavy. The sunlight stab at his retinas, too sharp across the torn up pitch. Anfield is a slow murmur of sound; Daniel wants it back at full volume. He doesn’t want to be the one disrupting everything, wasting time.
The game resumes, he glares at Martin across the field who gives him a doubting glance, brow furrowed.
He has to be steadied off at half time by the same paramedics who wanted him off the first time. He’s got a few raw streaks over elbows, forearms and knees, and two chipped teeth. Daniel clenches them anyway, feels a jolt of pain through his gums. It could’ve been way worse, and he’s annoyed he can’t be out there.
The game ends in a draw, and Daniel joins his teammates down towards the locker room. Fernando looks frustrated just behind Stevie, who looks collected, nodding occasionally, upholding their quiet discussion with an even calm Daniel admires in his captain.
He claps Pepe’s shoulder, and nods at Jamie in bypassing, but he rocks back on his heels until Martin comes up beside him. The Slovakian smiles lopsidedly at him, smallish, but he looks mostly frustrated, mirroring the majority of the team.
Daniel bumps shoulders with him carefully, his head still doesn’t feel quite right, and he feels like somebody decided to drive a couple of screws through his gums.
“We didn’t lose,” he offers. It’s weak, for both of them, but someone has to say it.
Martin looks at him, shrugs, “No, we didn’t. How are you feeling?”
Daniel sinks down onto an empty bench, the running water in the showers and the voices bouncing in there loud. Martin sits down beside him. Still radiating warmth, his long sleeves damp with sweat, the red of his jersey flecked with green patches.
“I’m fine. Been through worse, it’s worse not being able to get out there again, you know? One small thing, and everything goes down the drain.” He zips down the jacket he’d shrugged on previously, shirt and everything still on. He knows he sounds pessimistic, like it’s shit, maybe it is, it wasn’t anything Top Four, but it was still two points down the drain and Daniel might’ve been able to change that.
Martin snorts beside him, and Daniel glances up at him as the centre back pulls off his shirt, his back and shoulders littered with small angry red marks. He’s not surprised, yet he reaches out, fingers tracing the outlines of the Slovakian’s shoulder blades, the hitches in his spine.
Martin rolls his shoulders, but not as to shrug Daniel off. He takes it as a signal to keep going, more so when he steps backwards, towards Daniel.
“Sometimes you’re just shit at seeing the upside to everything, you know that? Be happy it’s two teeth and not your other foot.”
Daniel traces a tattoo down Martin’s inner arm, eyes trained on the loops and figures the ink forms. It’s not like they do this every day, he might blame it on the real knock to the skull he’s gotten, anything, nonetheless he lets it firmly slip that he doesn’t even mind this.
The whole fingertips slipping over skin, nails catching in the crook of an elbow, over a rib when he changes direction, eyes shameless on the slope of Martin’s shoulders, the small of his back, thing.
Wet feet are all over the floor, and Daniel startles out of, whatever the fuck it is he’s doing, as Lucas rounds the corner, hair dripping into his face and down his nose as he blinks furiously to see where he’s going.
“Careful, don’t know about you but personally, chipped teeth hurts like a bitch,” Daniel calls to the Brazilian, good humour for whatever he can make of it.
Lucas looks up, shaking fringe out of his eyes, but he laughs, “I wouldn’t worry about the one who is still standing on both feet?” he replies, accent thick, but familiar to Daniel. It’s welcome, Lucas’ positivity, right now.
Most of the team ducks out from behind the corner, and the air in general seems fairly cleared. Only Fernando is, of course, remaining in the shower, as Martin grabs a towel from beside Daniel. The Slovakian pauses, breath warm against Daniel’s cheek.
“Thanks, you know,” he says, beating Martin to saying whatever it is he was about to say.
He straightens up, shrugging, looking faintly out of place, almost uncomfortable, “For calling you out on being the fucking perfectionist you are, Daniel?” but he’s smirking, and Daniel makes a swipe for his bicep, chuckling.