Delayed (Drabble)
Delayed (Drabble)
Pairing: Iker Casillas/David Beckham
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: none of it is true, how could it be
AN: I've found inspiration to be an elusive and frustrating phantom and so I offer this up to you to criticise as you see fit
He sees it coming from a mile a way, how can he not?
He turns the key as quietly as he can, removing his shoes before entering, avoiding the noisy spot just beside the rug on the way in and shutting the door softly, he makes no sound, so practiced he is at this. He places his shoes gently beside the pairs of disarrayed sneakers already adorning the hallway entrance. He tiptoes past the living room, creeps past the bathroom and pauses at the lighted doorway of the kitchen.
He saw it coming, how could he not?
His head bows under the disapproving stare of the man waiting for him. And he waits in turn.
“You’re late.”
It’s how it always begins. He hates it.
“David, you know I hate doing this.”
He remembers, instead, one day last summer when they had been lying in bed, watching the sun creep its way up the white sheets and onto each other’s bodies. How he’d held Iker then, close, and no words were spoken, no recriminations, no excuses, nothing. Silence and the sun perfect on Spanish skin.
Iker goes on and his memory of that moment falters. He tries to hold it but in the presence of the disappointed frown etched onto his lover’s face it slips away. He feels like he is looking down the barrel of a gun and offers an excuse, an appeasement.
“Obviously this isn’t important to you, David, obviously it really doesn’t matter, and you couldn’t give a shit.”
But it does matter. Of course it matters. If it didn’t, why would he be there braving the displeasure of the other man? But this is all a part of it.
“It won’t happen again, I promise.”
It will, but it’s how it always ends. He hates it.
Pairing: Iker Casillas/David Beckham
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: none of it is true, how could it be
AN: I've found inspiration to be an elusive and frustrating phantom and so I offer this up to you to criticise as you see fit
He sees it coming from a mile a way, how can he not?
He turns the key as quietly as he can, removing his shoes before entering, avoiding the noisy spot just beside the rug on the way in and shutting the door softly, he makes no sound, so practiced he is at this. He places his shoes gently beside the pairs of disarrayed sneakers already adorning the hallway entrance. He tiptoes past the living room, creeps past the bathroom and pauses at the lighted doorway of the kitchen.
He saw it coming, how could he not?
His head bows under the disapproving stare of the man waiting for him. And he waits in turn.
“You’re late.”
It’s how it always begins. He hates it.
“David, you know I hate doing this.”
He remembers, instead, one day last summer when they had been lying in bed, watching the sun creep its way up the white sheets and onto each other’s bodies. How he’d held Iker then, close, and no words were spoken, no recriminations, no excuses, nothing. Silence and the sun perfect on Spanish skin.
Iker goes on and his memory of that moment falters. He tries to hold it but in the presence of the disappointed frown etched onto his lover’s face it slips away. He feels like he is looking down the barrel of a gun and offers an excuse, an appeasement.
“Obviously this isn’t important to you, David, obviously it really doesn’t matter, and you couldn’t give a shit.”
But it does matter. Of course it matters. If it didn’t, why would he be there braving the displeasure of the other man? But this is all a part of it.
“It won’t happen again, I promise.”
It will, but it’s how it always ends. He hates it.