It's a ficlet, by Jove.
I meant this to be done yesterday, for leetje's birthday, but apparently my timing sort of blows. Nevertheless, here is... Ruud van Nistelrooy/Edwin van der Sar, lacking anything resembling a header, possibly rated R, as requested here. Feel free to go there and request a ficlet of your own if you haven't already ;)
***
They've always measured everything between them in firsts.
There was the first time they met, back when Ruud was still young enough to get away with that floppy-looking Hugh Grant haircut. There was the first time they talked, when Ruud was still far from being a star but talking to Edwin sort of made him feel that way anyway, somehow. The first time they roomed together, Edwin singing bad Dutch pop badly in the shower, while Ruud made paper planes with the expensive-looking hotel stationery and glided them over onto the other twin bed in their room, or tried to.
There was the first time Ruud ate proper English fish and chips, sitting on Blackpool pier with Ole Gunnar Solskjaer, trying to pretend that the fat content of the greasy-looking meal didn't bother him even more than the chilly breeze that October evening. He'd called Edwin after that, from a payphone by the arcade in a motorway service station, feeding the machine shiny fifty pence pieces so he could hear Edwin telling him that battered haddock probably wouldn't result in death and anyway, the Blackpool Illuminations were supposed to be worth a look. Then Ole had returned from the shop, brandishing an ancient Meatloaf CD that he'd got on the cheap, and he'd had to ring off. It was Bat Out of Hell all the way back to Manchester, at times with a distinctly Norwegian accent, and by the time they got back it was too late to call him again.
There was Edwin's first day at Fulham, and it had still come as a shock though Ruud had known he was leaving Juve. He saw it on Sky Sports News in the morning and the phone rang a couple of hours later, while he was still trying to persuade a nagging Beckham-Solskjaer double-team that he really didn't feel like nine holes of golf or the Pizza Hut all-you-can-eat buffet. He'd slipped away after that, though he'd promised to meet his new teammates later that day, and sat in his car outside the training ground, grinning so widely he'd confused, amused and mildly freaked out poor Scholesy as he'd waved goodbye through his windscreen. He mentioned it to Edwin and there was a weird, awkward pause then, like he'd said the wrong thing and Edwin didn't quite know how to respond. In the end they'd said their stilted goodbyes, but six or seven months later, he'd found out the missing words there were I've missed you. And that was a first, too.
Of course, Euro 2004 was yet another first. Ruud's first and not Edwin's, and he couldn't believe how much it meant just to be there. But there were more firsts that summer, in a Portuguese hotel room that was too hot for them to think. One look and one touch in that stifling air and it made sense to look and touch more, both of them shirtless already and sticky with the heat. It was strange how friendship shifted so effortlessly into mouths and hands and bodies pressed together, an afterglow that lasted hours though all they'd done was touch, not more. They kissed for what felt like half an hour, awkward, clumsy, just trying to fit together in a way that made something like sense, though in the end that didn't seem to matter all that much after all. They just stretched out one beside the other on one too-small hotel bed and waited for morning.
That first amongst firsts, the all-important First Time, came not too much later. Maybe a week, after a loss, after the loss, when they went crashing out of the tournament to a depressingly exuberant Portugal. There was nothing planned about it and nothing remotely elegant, just two grown men around thirty in a bed whose frame squeaked disturbingly under their weight, fumbling to pull off each other's team-issue sweats as they breathed in audible gasps that just seemed to spur them on. He said it wasn't the first time he'd done this but Edwin barely had a clue what to do and Ruud knew little more; he wasn't sure that adolescent fumbling about fifteen years before had prepared him well for this at all. So it was awkward and close and hot and sticky and good, not quite enough and then too much Vaseline for lube and too much shuffling and jerking and tentative thrusting for how long it lasted when Edwin finally pushed inside him. It left them breathless and slick and sticky, with a peculiar ache and not quite embarrassed laugher as they lay there together afterwards, too tall to fit there really but trying it anyway. And in the end, none of that first time weirdness stopped them doing it again.
It's been a while now since then. They've seen a lot more firsts, though they've thinned out to a stop since Ruud left England. He remembers Edwin's first day in Manchester, how the management introduced him around and they both did an admirable job of acting like that was the first time they'd met; Ruud greeted him like he would have done any new player and Edwin played along without a second's hesitation, did for the whole day while they trained and every else tried not to look confused about it. They'd left together, leaving their teammates sort of strangely amused.
He remembers their first time together after Edwin's move there. He was not-quite-drunk after a club function, near Christmas, months of tension cracking apart and scattering all over the floor of that expensive hotel room as he finally admitted this was what he wanted after all; Edwin already knew. They shared a double bed, Edwin pressing him down with impossibly big, gentle hands, leaning the curves of his stomach and thighs with his fingertips as he undressed him slowly. He remembers the way he clutched at Edwin's shoulders as he pushed inside him, with technique they'd improved together. It was always a shock, how it felt as Edwin moved, watching him from above; it was always a shock how much he wanted it.
It's been a while now since then, a while since they spoke. It's been a while now since they've even seen each other. It's the first time that they've gone this long without talking in what feels like years and probably is. But as he sits there in a house, his house, in a city he still barely knows, the phone rings; it's Edwin's number there when he checks the screen, for the first time since he left. Suddenly his heart is in his throat.
"Hi," he says, but what he means is I miss you.
"It's been a while," Edwin says, but he means it's been too long.
He's never been able to make long distance work, maybe that explains the silence. But Edwin talks like he always talks and Ruud can't help but smile. He guesses there's a first time for everything.
***
They've always measured everything between them in firsts.
There was the first time they met, back when Ruud was still young enough to get away with that floppy-looking Hugh Grant haircut. There was the first time they talked, when Ruud was still far from being a star but talking to Edwin sort of made him feel that way anyway, somehow. The first time they roomed together, Edwin singing bad Dutch pop badly in the shower, while Ruud made paper planes with the expensive-looking hotel stationery and glided them over onto the other twin bed in their room, or tried to.
There was the first time Ruud ate proper English fish and chips, sitting on Blackpool pier with Ole Gunnar Solskjaer, trying to pretend that the fat content of the greasy-looking meal didn't bother him even more than the chilly breeze that October evening. He'd called Edwin after that, from a payphone by the arcade in a motorway service station, feeding the machine shiny fifty pence pieces so he could hear Edwin telling him that battered haddock probably wouldn't result in death and anyway, the Blackpool Illuminations were supposed to be worth a look. Then Ole had returned from the shop, brandishing an ancient Meatloaf CD that he'd got on the cheap, and he'd had to ring off. It was Bat Out of Hell all the way back to Manchester, at times with a distinctly Norwegian accent, and by the time they got back it was too late to call him again.
There was Edwin's first day at Fulham, and it had still come as a shock though Ruud had known he was leaving Juve. He saw it on Sky Sports News in the morning and the phone rang a couple of hours later, while he was still trying to persuade a nagging Beckham-Solskjaer double-team that he really didn't feel like nine holes of golf or the Pizza Hut all-you-can-eat buffet. He'd slipped away after that, though he'd promised to meet his new teammates later that day, and sat in his car outside the training ground, grinning so widely he'd confused, amused and mildly freaked out poor Scholesy as he'd waved goodbye through his windscreen. He mentioned it to Edwin and there was a weird, awkward pause then, like he'd said the wrong thing and Edwin didn't quite know how to respond. In the end they'd said their stilted goodbyes, but six or seven months later, he'd found out the missing words there were I've missed you. And that was a first, too.
Of course, Euro 2004 was yet another first. Ruud's first and not Edwin's, and he couldn't believe how much it meant just to be there. But there were more firsts that summer, in a Portuguese hotel room that was too hot for them to think. One look and one touch in that stifling air and it made sense to look and touch more, both of them shirtless already and sticky with the heat. It was strange how friendship shifted so effortlessly into mouths and hands and bodies pressed together, an afterglow that lasted hours though all they'd done was touch, not more. They kissed for what felt like half an hour, awkward, clumsy, just trying to fit together in a way that made something like sense, though in the end that didn't seem to matter all that much after all. They just stretched out one beside the other on one too-small hotel bed and waited for morning.
That first amongst firsts, the all-important First Time, came not too much later. Maybe a week, after a loss, after the loss, when they went crashing out of the tournament to a depressingly exuberant Portugal. There was nothing planned about it and nothing remotely elegant, just two grown men around thirty in a bed whose frame squeaked disturbingly under their weight, fumbling to pull off each other's team-issue sweats as they breathed in audible gasps that just seemed to spur them on. He said it wasn't the first time he'd done this but Edwin barely had a clue what to do and Ruud knew little more; he wasn't sure that adolescent fumbling about fifteen years before had prepared him well for this at all. So it was awkward and close and hot and sticky and good, not quite enough and then too much Vaseline for lube and too much shuffling and jerking and tentative thrusting for how long it lasted when Edwin finally pushed inside him. It left them breathless and slick and sticky, with a peculiar ache and not quite embarrassed laugher as they lay there together afterwards, too tall to fit there really but trying it anyway. And in the end, none of that first time weirdness stopped them doing it again.
It's been a while now since then. They've seen a lot more firsts, though they've thinned out to a stop since Ruud left England. He remembers Edwin's first day in Manchester, how the management introduced him around and they both did an admirable job of acting like that was the first time they'd met; Ruud greeted him like he would have done any new player and Edwin played along without a second's hesitation, did for the whole day while they trained and every else tried not to look confused about it. They'd left together, leaving their teammates sort of strangely amused.
He remembers their first time together after Edwin's move there. He was not-quite-drunk after a club function, near Christmas, months of tension cracking apart and scattering all over the floor of that expensive hotel room as he finally admitted this was what he wanted after all; Edwin already knew. They shared a double bed, Edwin pressing him down with impossibly big, gentle hands, leaning the curves of his stomach and thighs with his fingertips as he undressed him slowly. He remembers the way he clutched at Edwin's shoulders as he pushed inside him, with technique they'd improved together. It was always a shock, how it felt as Edwin moved, watching him from above; it was always a shock how much he wanted it.
It's been a while now since then, a while since they spoke. It's been a while now since they've even seen each other. It's the first time that they've gone this long without talking in what feels like years and probably is. But as he sits there in a house, his house, in a city he still barely knows, the phone rings; it's Edwin's number there when he checks the screen, for the first time since he left. Suddenly his heart is in his throat.
"Hi," he says, but what he means is I miss you.
"It's been a while," Edwin says, but he means it's been too long.
He's never been able to make long distance work, maybe that explains the silence. But Edwin talks like he always talks and Ruud can't help but smile. He guesses there's a first time for everything.