Fic: One Shot Of Happy (Eric Cantona/Ryan Giggs)
Title: One Shot of Happy
Pairing: Eric Cantona/Ryan Giggs (David Beckham/Gary Neville if you squint)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: First time I did a Cantona, otherwise none, I reckon.
Author's Notes: Written for shandoras for the Winter Exchange at footie_exchange.
The pub was full, even for a Friday night - a few regulars were sitting at the bar, half-empty pint glasses in front of them. Their voices created the low background murmur so typical for pubs, almost like the hum of blood pulsating through the body after a long match; and sometimes, their laughter surged up like waves crashing against solid rock on a windy day.
Groups of people sat on armchairs and sofas that looked like they’d been there ever since Manchester was granted city rights in 1853. The sofas were time-worn, with faded covers, typical pub furniture that belonged there, as did the ancient juke box in the corner and the cigarette smoke thickening the air.
Over their heads, bunches of mistletoe, tied to the glass racks and to the switched-off ceiling fan with red bows, reminded those still capable of looking up at this stage that it was Christmas once again; for those who weren’t, some of the staff had donned red Christmas hats, and the blackboard at the back of the room was offering ‘Santa’s Special’ in large, red and green letters, with a drawing of a slightly cross-eyed, red-nosed reindeer serving plates of food and the caption ‘ASK FOR DETAILS AT THE BAR’ in capital letters underneath.
It was just a typical Friday night in the average English pub - business as usual; apart from the large group that occupied, somewhat secluded from the rest of the guests, the space at the back of the room.
The first team was having its annual Christmas party, an established routine that provided an at least reasonable excuse to get out and have a few drinks during the season. Not that anyone really cared about having a reason to go out, but Ryan felt better for it - even though he hadn’t been at United for a very long time, he’d already heard about the gaffer’s spies, and while Becks and Sharpey seemed to forget all about it whenever they went out on a Saturday night, Ryan always trailed one or two steps behind them, trying to look as if he was going home after paying a visit to his mum.
Not today, however, as he was enjoying the evening far too much to worry about the gaffer, or his spies, or anyone else, for that matter. The only thing he was bothered about was that in the course of the evening, he had somehow lost the marble he’d taken with him; one of his mates had told him it produced a spectacular effect when dropped into someone’s lager, and Ryan, feeling slightly tipsy by now, was gutted that he wouldn’t be able to see the stunned look on Scholesy’s face.
It was a couple of minutes later - Scholesy had just gone to get the next round of drinks, and Ryan was watching worriedly from the corner of his eye how Becks slipped his hand into that of a slightly drunk Gaz - that Ryan’s lager suddenly erupted in a spectacular foam fountain, which then rained down on his best pair of trousers to the roaring laughter of his friends.
Ryan’s evening went a bit downhill from there - Scholesy’s frequent smirks in his direction and the feeling of wet jeans clinging uncomfortably to his legs made sure of that. He didn’t want to be a spoilsport, but it didn’t help that they were sitting close to the toilets, as every time someone opened the door (something that occurred more frequently in the course of the night), a cold breeze blew in their direction, causing the wet fabric to become cold and clammy on Ryan’s skin.
He wanted to go home, change and think about how he could get his revenge on Scholesy; but on the other hand, he didn’t want to leave early, because he could already imagine the stick he’d get in training if he did. It remained to wait until the others left; and Ryan knew that this would be when the pub closed its doors at eleven. What time was it? He hadn’t brought his watch.
He turned in his chair to see whether there was any clock in the room, but found that his view was blocked by Keaney, who had - unnoticed by Ryan - made his way over to the table where he was sitting with the rest of their ‘gang’.
“You guys want another beer?” Keaney’s speech was slightly slurred, and he had difficulties to stand without swaying slightly, as if he was standing on a boat that was floating down the river Irwell.
Not quite trusting his own tongue anymore, Ryan shook his head; a bad idea, because his teammate’s face immediately started to blur around the edges. For a moment, he found it difficult to think, despite knowing in the back of his mind that there’d been something a minute ago he desperately wanted to ask.
A moment later, he remembered what it was - and without thinking, Ryan grabbed Keaney’s wrist, the one where an expensive watch reflected the chain of colourful fairy lights wound around a column near them.
“You…you know what time issit?”
He saw a flash of anger crossing the older man’s features, without really grasping why, and, owing to the four or five pints he’d already had tonight, he also failed to notice how Sharpey and Becks suppressed a giggle, while Gary’s expression suddenly grew tense. Keaney opened his mouth to say something, and by the look on his face it was not going to be particularly nice, but before he could utter the first word, someone put his hands on Ryan’s shoulders.
“There a problem here?” Eric Cantona demanded to know. Ryan could feel Eric’s breath in his hair, the weight of his hands heavy on his shoulders, and caught a faint smell of champagne. Suddenly aware that his hand was still around Keaney’s wrist, he let go as if burnt - also because he just remembered, though strangely distant, the story how Roy Keane went to buy a watch from Sharpey’s jeweller friend…
“No.” Keaney sounded more sober, the same tense edge in his voice that Ryan had noticed in Eric’s before. And even though he couldn’t see Cantona’s face behind him, he could feel how the other man straightened up, how his hands rested on his shoulders a little heavier than it would have been necessary, in preparation for…yeah, for what? An argument? A fight? Had Eric jumped to false conclusions - did he know that all that had taken place was a simple misunderstanding? Ryan opened his mouth to shed some light on the whole thing; to say that it was nothing at all, but just then Keaney gave an angry snort, turned and walked off, head held high, and it wasn’t until he disappeared behind a column that Eric’s grip on his shoulders relaxed.
“Let’s go home.”
Part of Ryan wanted to protest, just to be stubborn, just to not conform to the commanding tone in Eric’s voice, in a reflex automatised over the years, at school, at home. But a larger part of him was acutely aware of his damp trousers that grew more uncomfortable by the minute, and actually quite liked the idea of going home, although he wasn’t all that sure which home Eric had meant.
“Your place or mine?”
The playful question was out before he could even think about it, and for a moment Ryan was worried that he’d been too blunt, that Eric had just meant to take him home, where his mum was probably waiting up. It irked Ryan that he could never tell whether Eric Cantona found something funny or not, in fact, couldn’t say all that well if he was even remotely interested in anything. He was used to being able to act his normal self around his friends, to have a laugh, and not really having to take anything seriously. Around Eric, however, he sometimes felt awkward, small, a bit ridiculous - a feeling that only lasted for a while and would fade quickly, but was there nevertheless.
But then again, Eric and him weren’t friends like him and Scholesy, or him and Gaz. Ryan had always liked Eric (for the short time he’d known him, at least), looked up to him, seen him as some kind of mentor despite his antics on and off the pitch - and the other had returned the compliment by, one glance at a time, letting Ryan look behind the façade that was Eric Cantona, the public person. It meant a lot to Ryan that his idol trusted him, wanted to be friends with him; but he soon realised that knowing Eric did not mean knowing what he was like.
One thing he realised, however, was that Eric was, above all, one thing - he was lonely. Behind the mask of the hard man, the extravagant player, the self-confident genius, he was different, gentler, like an animal that played big to be left undisturbed. Maybe it was that realisation that made him cross the line between ‘getting along’ and ‘sleeping’ with Eric, Ryan didn’t remember. Fact was though that somehow they’d started being more than just friends (even if it sounded tacky in Ryan’s ears when he thought it).
They’d never discussed it, because neither of them felt that there was anything that needed discussing - and in fact, Ryan refused to give it much thought altogether. It was something he just did because he enjoyed it, a bit like playing football really, and as long as it was simple and fun, and as long as they stayed mates as well, he went along with it. He didn’t tell anyone about it, though; his mum didn’t mind if he spent the odd night at a mate’s house, and he didn’t even have to lie to her about that.
Ryan was jerked out of his thoughts when the pressure of Eric’s hands on his shoulders suddenly disappeared, leaving them exposed to another stream of cold air coming from the door. Ryan shuddered, stood up, then remembered that he’d had a good amount of alcohol since they’d come here, and duly lost his balance, stumbled, flailing to catch anything that would prevent a fall.
In the end, Eric caught him.
He grabbed hold of Eric’s arm, waited a little longer than necessary until he was sure that the world around him had come to a halt before he opened his eyes again. Gratefully, he realised that the other man’s face close to his wasn’t blurring or spinning - then, he realised the mildly amused look in Cantona’s brown eyes.
“Looks like the talent has room to improve in some areas,” Eric said, breath still smelling of champagne - extravagant git, Ryan thought, without meaning it - his French origin a little more evident in his voice than usual. Other than that, he didn’t show a single sign of being drunk. Was he drunk at all? He’d been sitting on the other end of the space; Ryan hadn’t seen more than a few glimpses of him all evening.
“At least I don’t offend the barman by ordering champagne,” Ryan retorted, and this time, Cantona grinned.
Ryan let go of his arm, feeling the stares of his friends burning in his neck; especially Gaz and Scholesy had taken the mickey out of him for ‘making alliances with the French’ several times. Although the barely concealed grins always gave them away, they said it wrinkling their noses as if Ryan had done something particularly disgusting, in a display of true English affection towards the French that belonged to the country like fish and chips, pubs or the Queen.
“So, what’s the answer to me question then?” Ryan wanted to know, demonstratively ignoring them.
For the shortest of moments, Eric’s brow furrowed in thought; then he remembered.
”You’ll see,” he said, that amused sparkle back in his eyes if you knew where to look for it, and with a last glance over his shoulder to the tables (where Incey was just telling another of his stories), he made his way to the exit.
Ryan said a quick goodbye to Scholesy, Sharpey and the others, and hurried after him.
The small front room of the pub was empty, except for a Santa statue holding a blackboard saying MENU OF THE DAY - FRIED SAUSAGE AND POTATOES. As the door closed behind them, it shut out the laughter and the music (someone had put in the Best Christmas Songs of All Times at some point), reducing them to almost inaudible background noises. Ryan thought he recognised the beginning of ‘My Little Drummer Boy’ as Eric’s hand, cool and rough on his skin, slipped beneath his shirt; when he could hear the music again, the song had long changed to something else.
A group of girls passed the pub when they stepped outside; they were giggling and talking loudly, going home after a night out, just like them. Ryan lowered his head and quickly combed some of his curly hair to the front, hoping that they had not seen -
“Girls, girls, girls - that’s Ryan Giggs!” A tall blonde girl with a red top, arms and most of her legs bare despite the chilly night air, stopped dead in her tracks. Excitedly, she grabbed the arm of her smaller friend, who exasperatedly rolled her dark almond eyes.
“Yeah, sure, Milly,” she said and tried to get out of her friend’s grip. “And I’ve just borrowed a fiver off Orlando Bloom, can we please go hom -”
Her gaze fell on Ryan, whose face was momentarily enlightened by a passing car, and her sentence ended in a high-pitched scream of excitement.
“Milly, it’s Ryan Giggs!”
Ryan, still not quite used to the sudden attention he got from girls he didn’t even know, frantically looked around for help. But Eric was nowhere to be seen - probably gone to call a cab - and Ryan found himself all alone, surrounded by at least four girls nagging him for an autograph in high voices that reminded him of seagulls quarrelling over a fish, some even pulling at his shirt. Hopefully none of them would notice his damp jeans, Ryan thought in a short flush of madness, cheeks burning red, thank god for the darkness, before a cab pulled up next to them, the driver honking for his attention.
A few seconds later, Ryan sat in the back seat of the cab, pulling at his slightly crumpled T-Shirt. He didn’t quite know how he’d managed to free himself from the group of screaming girls, but what he did know was that he’d never been so relieved to see Eric.
“They were fucking crazy - pawing me - they’d have ripped my shirt off if you hadn’t pulled up, they’d have done anything,” he panted, excitement replacing anxiety and embarrassment once he was safe in the taxi that took him away from those hyaenas as fast as possible. “Did you see the blonde one with the red top? I think she told me I could score with her anytime!”
Eric, sitting in front of Ryan next to the driver, said nothing; but when Ryan saw his eyes in the rear mirror, he recognised the same tension in his gaze that he had felt in the other man’s actions back at the pub. Settling back into his seat, he looked out of the window at the Christmas lights whizzing past, wondering why on earth Eric Cantona had to be such a moody bastard.
The rest of the drive passed in silence. They arrived at Eric’s house fifteen minutes later, and while Eric paid the driver, Ryan struggled out of his seat, reluctantly leaving the warmth of the car and shivering in the December cold while he waited for Eric to finish.
Hopping from one foot to another and rubbing his arms to create warmth, he was sure that he was going to freeze to death when the car door finally slammed shut, and the taxi drove off into the silent, night, red lights visible in the darkness. Ryan watched them until they disappeared behind a corner; and by the time they did, Eric had already unlocked the door and switched on the light, waiting for Ryan to get in, before he closed the door again and locked it twice.
Eric always led him into the living room first, had always done when they’d met like this before he’d taken him upstairs, as if he wanted to make sure that Ryan knew he wasn’t here for the one thing only. Today was no exception - they sat on the leather couch in the spacious living room, drinking (or in Ryan’s case, sipping) champagne, talking about their teammates, about games upcoming or past, about the clubs Eric had played before.
Eric had a way of telling stories, or rather a way of telling them halfway through before he went off on a tangent and came to talk about a completely different topic altogether. It was incredibly hard to follow him if you didn’t know he did that; but Ryan did and was able to follow his train of thought quite well - until Eric made a particularly daring leap from rising wages for footballers to traffic congestion in the city centre.
Ryan, for once, had no bloody clue what he was talking about, and in fact, he hadn’t really been listening either - his mind kept wandering back to the look he’d seen in Eric’s eyes back in the taxi. It had stung then, for reasons Ryan couldn’t quite put the finger on, and it still stung a bit now when he thought about it.
“…why there are more cars.” Eric said, finishing his line of argument, finishing his glass of champagne and settling back on the couch with a satisfied expression on his face.
Ryan kissed him then, full on the lips and without any ceremony whatsoever, climbing onto Cantona’s lap and putting his arms around his neck. He just stopped thinking, about the pub, his still damp trousers, anything, just tasted the champagne, let his hands wander on their own accord, over Eric’s neck, his ears, feeling the strange sensation of short hair tickling his palms when he moved his hands over the other man’s head - a feeling that had taken him a while to get used to…
Eric, on the other hand, seemed to have no problem with his hair - Ryan had noticed quickly that the other man liked to run his fingers through his curls until they were a dishevelled black mess, or to tug at them as he did now, kissing him back passionately until both of them had to pull back for air.
“Upstairs,” the command came, Eric’s voice hoarse and breathless. Ryan only trusted himself with a nod. Clumsily, he eased himself backwards and off Eric’s lap - it took him a while to find the ground beneath his feet, and even then, his legs felt like jelly, as if he had just run for miles and miles on end. It took Eric even longer to get up, or at least Ryan thought it did - he wanted to get on with this, wanted to get upstairs, impatiently grabbing Eric’s wrist and pulling him towards the stairs.
He felt bad for that by the time they’d reached the bottom of the stairs, didn’t want to ruin it by rushing it when he knew that Eric liked to take it slow, relishing every second of their get-togethers, or whatever he preferred to call them. He stopped to turn around, barely saw Eric pounce as he did, before the other man claimed his lips in another hungry kiss, causing Ryan to make a step backwards, almost falling over the first stair as he did - the next thing he could feel was Eric’s hands on his thighs, lifting him up, and then he just hoped that Eric wouldn’t fall over backwards and down the stairs, clinging to the other man’s neck for his dear life as he was being carried upstairs, not daring to do anything but wrapping his legs as tightly around Eric’s waist as he could.
Eric let him back down when they reached the top of the stairs, and they stumbled into the dark bedroom, kissing furiously, hands tugging at each other’s clothing - getitoff, getitoff - tripping over pairs of shoes and Eric’s carelessly abandoned canvas bag on the floor.
Something touched the back of his legs - the bed, Ryan thought before Cantona abruptly let go of him and disappeared into the darkness.
“Eric?” No reply. Ryan stood and listened into the darkness, his lips numb, blood rushing in his ears, the air coming in ragged breaths. Apart from that, silence. What was this supposed to mean? He was pretty much in unknown territory, and started to feel exposed and uncomfortable, standing alone in the dark.
“If you want to play hide and seek, I’m not breaking my neck groping -” He said it aloud, trying to cover up his uncertainty.
There was the faint rustling of fabric behind him, a shirt sliding to the floor; soft creaking of bedsprings. The lamp on the nightstand came on, flooding the bedroom with yellow light.
He could feel Eric’s breath on his neck, the warmth of his body behind his own, felt a shiver run down his spine when he kissed him just above the collar of his shirt. Eric’s hands, cool and steady, running down his sides, caressing his skin as they slid under his shirt to lift it up - a brief struggle as the shirt caught when he wanted to pull it over his head, a chuckle - then, the shirt disappeared into the shadows to Ryan’s feet.
“Come here.” Eric’s voice was gentle now, tense edge completely gone. Ryan obeyed; turned around and crawled onto the bed, let Eric guide him to lie down on his back, silky sheets cool against his torso.
He looked away when Eric took off his jeans, not quite brave enough yet to watch him openly - his eyes were fixed on the ceiling, hips bucking on their own accord when Eric slid his hands over Ryan’s hipbones, hooking two fingers under the waistband of his trousers, pulling them down in one. He felt goose bumps rise on his flesh as it was exposed to the cold air; noticed how the mattress shifted when Eric leaned over to fetch something from the nightstand drawer.
Cantona’s face shifted back into focus, looming over him, legs carefully settling between Ryan’s, nudging them apart - Ryan felt Eric’s arousal against his thigh, remembered faintly how terrified he’d been the first time that had happened -
“Mmmm!” Eric’s hand disappeared between their bodies, stroking his shaft while he kissed him sloppily, more tongues and spit than anything else, and Ryan clung to him, eyes closed, hands roaming up and down Cantona’s back, feeling every move of the strong muscles beneath the skin. Then, Eric broke the kiss and let go, his face disappearing out of Ryan’s sight.
Ryan made a complaining sound, tried to guide Eric’s hand back to where it had been - instead, it was sliding up his thigh, tickling him. He barely suppressed a giggle, dug his toes into the sheets to stop himself from kicking out. The tickling stopped, springs creaked as Eric shifted on the mattress. Then, a slick finger probed against Ryan’s entrance.
“Nghh!” He hadn’t expected this - fingers digging into Eric’s back, Ryan arched up, writhing and moaning when Eric pushed the first finger in, carefully, distracting him by crushing their lips together again; a second finger followed, moving and stretching inside him, not as painful as it had been the first time, but still enough to make him gasp and shiver under Eric. Gradually, he relaxed, feeling Eric’s finger probe inside him, a feeling that was both alien and nice at the same time, but nowhere as horrible as he’d thought it to be initially -
ohgod -
Waves of pleasure rippled through his body, drizzled into every single cell of his being when Eric’s fingers brushed a spot inside him that Ryan didn’t even know to exist, little bright spots dancing before his eyes - Eric smiled and kissed him again, not quite as messily this time, fingers retreating, leaving Ryan feeling empty, wanting more.
“Ready?” Eric’s eyes boring into his. Ryan could only manage to nod, tightly shutting his eyes, holding his breath, preparing for the pain he both feared and wanted -
A broken moan when Eric entered him - Ryan didn’t know who had uttered it, forgot where he was, who he was as the world around him fell out of focus, leaving him with nothing but Eric, his skin warm and moving against his own, a hand stroking his shaft, their breaths mingling, sweaty foreheads touching when Eric started to move inside him.
He felt Eric’s hand tangle in his hair, pulling it backwards as they kissed, again and again - Ryan arched up to meet his thrusts, wrapped his legs around the other man’s waist without really thinking about it, just did it because it felt like the right thing to do - he found it hard to breathe, held his breath when Eric thrust inside him, gasped out awkwardly in between sloppy kisses, dug his nails deep, deep into Eric’s back when Cantona groaned and buried his face in Ryan’s hair, his thrusts growing stronger, faster, almost desperate -
Every muscle of Ryan’s body ached, screamed for release - he pushed into Eric’s grip, begged - ohpleasejesusplease - clumsily stroking his hair, hands slipping on the other man’s sweaty neck, Eric incoherently mumbling something French into his ear, his words separated by ragged breaths, thrust, breath, thrust, breath -
Ryan cried out, exploding into Eric’s hand, feeling the sticky substance on his own stomach; shortly after, Eric came deep inside him, gasping out something Ryan didn’t understand, and then collapsing on top of him, breathing heavily, still stroking Ryan’s hair.
For a few seconds, Ryan was sure that he would never be able to move again - but Cantona was still lying on top of him with all his weight, and Ryan found it hard to breathe. Slowly, he wriggled himself free, resting his head on Eric’s chest, close to where the Indian was tattooed over his heart; tracing it with his index finger, he could hear Eric’s heartbeat, quick and loud at first, then gradually quieting down, much like Eric’s breath in his hair.
Half an hour later, Ryan was sitting downstairs on the leather couch in Eric’s living room, the curly hair wet from the shower he’d just taken, the flute of champagne from before still on the glass table before him. He hadn’t but taken a sip from it yet, didn’t like it that much; and in addition to that, he felt he’d had enough to drink for tonight.
Upstairs, he could hear the water rushing from the bathroom; then, there was silence, Eric’s footsteps in the bedroom above. Minutes later, Cantona came down the stairs in jeans and a sweater, holding a package wrapped in red paper in his hand. Eric helped himself to a glass of champagne before he sat down next to Ryan.
“Here."
Ryan could smell the same shampoo he’d used himself just a few minutes ago when he leaned over and took the present from Eric’s hands. He put it in his lap, unsure what to do - he hadn’t expected a gift, not from Eric Cantona, of all people, and he hadn’t got anything to give in return.
“I didn’t know you had a present for me.” His cheeks burned.
But Eric didn’t seem to hear him, or was deliberately ignoring the embarrassed tone in Ryan’s voice. He gestured to the package in Ryan’s lap. “Open it,” he said, and Ryan thought he could hear the same impatience in his voice that his mother always failed to conceal when she urged Rhodri and him to ‘open the big present first’ on Christmas Day.
He felt Eric’s eyes on him as he fumbled with the golden ribbon, loosening it before he could pull it off. The present felt soft in his hands; red wrapping paper, too exquisite to tear, rustled promisingly as Ryan turned the package around to carefully peel off the Sellotape, the tip of his tongue sticking out in concentration.
Peeling off the last bit of the transparent tape, he unwrapped the present, put the paper aside with trembling fingers, unfolded the soft fabric in his lap. His heart skipped a beat.
“Eric - I can’t -” The shirt looked expensive, bloody expensive, an extravagant affair in red and black. Ryan knew in an instant that he’d never wear it in public.
“Put it on.”
Ryan did, reluctantly, not wanting to anger Eric. He pulled his old shirt over his head, carefully folded it and hung it over the back of the couch before he slipped into the shirt Eric had given to him. It felt nice on his skin, and Ryan liked the colours, knew he could carry them off, but -
“Eric - my mum, she’ll want to know - everyone’s gonna want to know - I - I mean it’s nice and everything, but…” Ryan’s voice trailed off. He was lost for words now, not wanting to hurt his friend by rejecting his present, not being able to accept it either - how could he ever explain why one of his team-mates gave him an expensive shirt like this for Christmas? He couldn’t stand to look at Eric.
But to his surprise, Eric laughed - softly, and when Ryan dared to look up at him, the sparkle was back in his eyes, no anger, no hurt. “Ryan, Ryan…forever modest, aren’t you?” Eric’s hands stroked his damp curls, played with them as he spoke; raked his fingers through them, combing them back. He was looking at him, but Ryan had the feeling that Eric was far away in his own thoughts, looking at something no one else could see.
“Just wear it when you come here; I’ll keep it for you.” Thoughtfully, still, and the hands had moved on, were turning up the collar of his new shirt, smoothing out a crease at the front, picking off a speck of dirt. Then, Eric stopped, his hands resting on Ryan’s shoulders.
“Joyeux Noel, Ryan.” This time, Eric was really looking at him.
“Joyeux Noel, Eric.” He’d looked that phrase up in Rhodri’s GCSE French textbook and practised it with his brother for more than an hour, until it didn’t make him feel like he had a knot in his tongue anymore. It still sounded a bit strange to his ears, and it was either that or the fact that Ryan, never as good with languages as he was with the ball, had learned that phrase to surprise him with it, that made Eric smile as he pulled Ryan close.
His hands were back in Ryan’s hair, thumbs caressing his head just above the ears. Apart from the ticking of a clock somewhere in the house, and the steady rushing of cars outside, there was complete, comfortable silence. Ryan idly wondered if Eric realised that the way he was lying undid all the efforts he had made earlier to straighten his shirt; and with that thought, he drifted off into sleep.
Pairing: Eric Cantona/Ryan Giggs (David Beckham/Gary Neville if you squint)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: First time I did a Cantona, otherwise none, I reckon.
Author's Notes: Written for shandoras for the Winter Exchange at footie_exchange.
The pub was full, even for a Friday night - a few regulars were sitting at the bar, half-empty pint glasses in front of them. Their voices created the low background murmur so typical for pubs, almost like the hum of blood pulsating through the body after a long match; and sometimes, their laughter surged up like waves crashing against solid rock on a windy day.
Groups of people sat on armchairs and sofas that looked like they’d been there ever since Manchester was granted city rights in 1853. The sofas were time-worn, with faded covers, typical pub furniture that belonged there, as did the ancient juke box in the corner and the cigarette smoke thickening the air.
Over their heads, bunches of mistletoe, tied to the glass racks and to the switched-off ceiling fan with red bows, reminded those still capable of looking up at this stage that it was Christmas once again; for those who weren’t, some of the staff had donned red Christmas hats, and the blackboard at the back of the room was offering ‘Santa’s Special’ in large, red and green letters, with a drawing of a slightly cross-eyed, red-nosed reindeer serving plates of food and the caption ‘ASK FOR DETAILS AT THE BAR’ in capital letters underneath.
It was just a typical Friday night in the average English pub - business as usual; apart from the large group that occupied, somewhat secluded from the rest of the guests, the space at the back of the room.
The first team was having its annual Christmas party, an established routine that provided an at least reasonable excuse to get out and have a few drinks during the season. Not that anyone really cared about having a reason to go out, but Ryan felt better for it - even though he hadn’t been at United for a very long time, he’d already heard about the gaffer’s spies, and while Becks and Sharpey seemed to forget all about it whenever they went out on a Saturday night, Ryan always trailed one or two steps behind them, trying to look as if he was going home after paying a visit to his mum.
Not today, however, as he was enjoying the evening far too much to worry about the gaffer, or his spies, or anyone else, for that matter. The only thing he was bothered about was that in the course of the evening, he had somehow lost the marble he’d taken with him; one of his mates had told him it produced a spectacular effect when dropped into someone’s lager, and Ryan, feeling slightly tipsy by now, was gutted that he wouldn’t be able to see the stunned look on Scholesy’s face.
It was a couple of minutes later - Scholesy had just gone to get the next round of drinks, and Ryan was watching worriedly from the corner of his eye how Becks slipped his hand into that of a slightly drunk Gaz - that Ryan’s lager suddenly erupted in a spectacular foam fountain, which then rained down on his best pair of trousers to the roaring laughter of his friends.
Ryan’s evening went a bit downhill from there - Scholesy’s frequent smirks in his direction and the feeling of wet jeans clinging uncomfortably to his legs made sure of that. He didn’t want to be a spoilsport, but it didn’t help that they were sitting close to the toilets, as every time someone opened the door (something that occurred more frequently in the course of the night), a cold breeze blew in their direction, causing the wet fabric to become cold and clammy on Ryan’s skin.
He wanted to go home, change and think about how he could get his revenge on Scholesy; but on the other hand, he didn’t want to leave early, because he could already imagine the stick he’d get in training if he did. It remained to wait until the others left; and Ryan knew that this would be when the pub closed its doors at eleven. What time was it? He hadn’t brought his watch.
He turned in his chair to see whether there was any clock in the room, but found that his view was blocked by Keaney, who had - unnoticed by Ryan - made his way over to the table where he was sitting with the rest of their ‘gang’.
“You guys want another beer?” Keaney’s speech was slightly slurred, and he had difficulties to stand without swaying slightly, as if he was standing on a boat that was floating down the river Irwell.
Not quite trusting his own tongue anymore, Ryan shook his head; a bad idea, because his teammate’s face immediately started to blur around the edges. For a moment, he found it difficult to think, despite knowing in the back of his mind that there’d been something a minute ago he desperately wanted to ask.
A moment later, he remembered what it was - and without thinking, Ryan grabbed Keaney’s wrist, the one where an expensive watch reflected the chain of colourful fairy lights wound around a column near them.
“You…you know what time issit?”
He saw a flash of anger crossing the older man’s features, without really grasping why, and, owing to the four or five pints he’d already had tonight, he also failed to notice how Sharpey and Becks suppressed a giggle, while Gary’s expression suddenly grew tense. Keaney opened his mouth to say something, and by the look on his face it was not going to be particularly nice, but before he could utter the first word, someone put his hands on Ryan’s shoulders.
“There a problem here?” Eric Cantona demanded to know. Ryan could feel Eric’s breath in his hair, the weight of his hands heavy on his shoulders, and caught a faint smell of champagne. Suddenly aware that his hand was still around Keaney’s wrist, he let go as if burnt - also because he just remembered, though strangely distant, the story how Roy Keane went to buy a watch from Sharpey’s jeweller friend…
“No.” Keaney sounded more sober, the same tense edge in his voice that Ryan had noticed in Eric’s before. And even though he couldn’t see Cantona’s face behind him, he could feel how the other man straightened up, how his hands rested on his shoulders a little heavier than it would have been necessary, in preparation for…yeah, for what? An argument? A fight? Had Eric jumped to false conclusions - did he know that all that had taken place was a simple misunderstanding? Ryan opened his mouth to shed some light on the whole thing; to say that it was nothing at all, but just then Keaney gave an angry snort, turned and walked off, head held high, and it wasn’t until he disappeared behind a column that Eric’s grip on his shoulders relaxed.
“Let’s go home.”
Part of Ryan wanted to protest, just to be stubborn, just to not conform to the commanding tone in Eric’s voice, in a reflex automatised over the years, at school, at home. But a larger part of him was acutely aware of his damp trousers that grew more uncomfortable by the minute, and actually quite liked the idea of going home, although he wasn’t all that sure which home Eric had meant.
“Your place or mine?”
The playful question was out before he could even think about it, and for a moment Ryan was worried that he’d been too blunt, that Eric had just meant to take him home, where his mum was probably waiting up. It irked Ryan that he could never tell whether Eric Cantona found something funny or not, in fact, couldn’t say all that well if he was even remotely interested in anything. He was used to being able to act his normal self around his friends, to have a laugh, and not really having to take anything seriously. Around Eric, however, he sometimes felt awkward, small, a bit ridiculous - a feeling that only lasted for a while and would fade quickly, but was there nevertheless.
But then again, Eric and him weren’t friends like him and Scholesy, or him and Gaz. Ryan had always liked Eric (for the short time he’d known him, at least), looked up to him, seen him as some kind of mentor despite his antics on and off the pitch - and the other had returned the compliment by, one glance at a time, letting Ryan look behind the façade that was Eric Cantona, the public person. It meant a lot to Ryan that his idol trusted him, wanted to be friends with him; but he soon realised that knowing Eric did not mean knowing what he was like.
One thing he realised, however, was that Eric was, above all, one thing - he was lonely. Behind the mask of the hard man, the extravagant player, the self-confident genius, he was different, gentler, like an animal that played big to be left undisturbed. Maybe it was that realisation that made him cross the line between ‘getting along’ and ‘sleeping’ with Eric, Ryan didn’t remember. Fact was though that somehow they’d started being more than just friends (even if it sounded tacky in Ryan’s ears when he thought it).
They’d never discussed it, because neither of them felt that there was anything that needed discussing - and in fact, Ryan refused to give it much thought altogether. It was something he just did because he enjoyed it, a bit like playing football really, and as long as it was simple and fun, and as long as they stayed mates as well, he went along with it. He didn’t tell anyone about it, though; his mum didn’t mind if he spent the odd night at a mate’s house, and he didn’t even have to lie to her about that.
Ryan was jerked out of his thoughts when the pressure of Eric’s hands on his shoulders suddenly disappeared, leaving them exposed to another stream of cold air coming from the door. Ryan shuddered, stood up, then remembered that he’d had a good amount of alcohol since they’d come here, and duly lost his balance, stumbled, flailing to catch anything that would prevent a fall.
In the end, Eric caught him.
He grabbed hold of Eric’s arm, waited a little longer than necessary until he was sure that the world around him had come to a halt before he opened his eyes again. Gratefully, he realised that the other man’s face close to his wasn’t blurring or spinning - then, he realised the mildly amused look in Cantona’s brown eyes.
“Looks like the talent has room to improve in some areas,” Eric said, breath still smelling of champagne - extravagant git, Ryan thought, without meaning it - his French origin a little more evident in his voice than usual. Other than that, he didn’t show a single sign of being drunk. Was he drunk at all? He’d been sitting on the other end of the space; Ryan hadn’t seen more than a few glimpses of him all evening.
“At least I don’t offend the barman by ordering champagne,” Ryan retorted, and this time, Cantona grinned.
Ryan let go of his arm, feeling the stares of his friends burning in his neck; especially Gaz and Scholesy had taken the mickey out of him for ‘making alliances with the French’ several times. Although the barely concealed grins always gave them away, they said it wrinkling their noses as if Ryan had done something particularly disgusting, in a display of true English affection towards the French that belonged to the country like fish and chips, pubs or the Queen.
“So, what’s the answer to me question then?” Ryan wanted to know, demonstratively ignoring them.
For the shortest of moments, Eric’s brow furrowed in thought; then he remembered.
”You’ll see,” he said, that amused sparkle back in his eyes if you knew where to look for it, and with a last glance over his shoulder to the tables (where Incey was just telling another of his stories), he made his way to the exit.
Ryan said a quick goodbye to Scholesy, Sharpey and the others, and hurried after him.
The small front room of the pub was empty, except for a Santa statue holding a blackboard saying MENU OF THE DAY - FRIED SAUSAGE AND POTATOES. As the door closed behind them, it shut out the laughter and the music (someone had put in the Best Christmas Songs of All Times at some point), reducing them to almost inaudible background noises. Ryan thought he recognised the beginning of ‘My Little Drummer Boy’ as Eric’s hand, cool and rough on his skin, slipped beneath his shirt; when he could hear the music again, the song had long changed to something else.
A group of girls passed the pub when they stepped outside; they were giggling and talking loudly, going home after a night out, just like them. Ryan lowered his head and quickly combed some of his curly hair to the front, hoping that they had not seen -
“Girls, girls, girls - that’s Ryan Giggs!” A tall blonde girl with a red top, arms and most of her legs bare despite the chilly night air, stopped dead in her tracks. Excitedly, she grabbed the arm of her smaller friend, who exasperatedly rolled her dark almond eyes.
“Yeah, sure, Milly,” she said and tried to get out of her friend’s grip. “And I’ve just borrowed a fiver off Orlando Bloom, can we please go hom -”
Her gaze fell on Ryan, whose face was momentarily enlightened by a passing car, and her sentence ended in a high-pitched scream of excitement.
“Milly, it’s Ryan Giggs!”
Ryan, still not quite used to the sudden attention he got from girls he didn’t even know, frantically looked around for help. But Eric was nowhere to be seen - probably gone to call a cab - and Ryan found himself all alone, surrounded by at least four girls nagging him for an autograph in high voices that reminded him of seagulls quarrelling over a fish, some even pulling at his shirt. Hopefully none of them would notice his damp jeans, Ryan thought in a short flush of madness, cheeks burning red, thank god for the darkness, before a cab pulled up next to them, the driver honking for his attention.
A few seconds later, Ryan sat in the back seat of the cab, pulling at his slightly crumpled T-Shirt. He didn’t quite know how he’d managed to free himself from the group of screaming girls, but what he did know was that he’d never been so relieved to see Eric.
“They were fucking crazy - pawing me - they’d have ripped my shirt off if you hadn’t pulled up, they’d have done anything,” he panted, excitement replacing anxiety and embarrassment once he was safe in the taxi that took him away from those hyaenas as fast as possible. “Did you see the blonde one with the red top? I think she told me I could score with her anytime!”
Eric, sitting in front of Ryan next to the driver, said nothing; but when Ryan saw his eyes in the rear mirror, he recognised the same tension in his gaze that he had felt in the other man’s actions back at the pub. Settling back into his seat, he looked out of the window at the Christmas lights whizzing past, wondering why on earth Eric Cantona had to be such a moody bastard.
The rest of the drive passed in silence. They arrived at Eric’s house fifteen minutes later, and while Eric paid the driver, Ryan struggled out of his seat, reluctantly leaving the warmth of the car and shivering in the December cold while he waited for Eric to finish.
Hopping from one foot to another and rubbing his arms to create warmth, he was sure that he was going to freeze to death when the car door finally slammed shut, and the taxi drove off into the silent, night, red lights visible in the darkness. Ryan watched them until they disappeared behind a corner; and by the time they did, Eric had already unlocked the door and switched on the light, waiting for Ryan to get in, before he closed the door again and locked it twice.
Eric always led him into the living room first, had always done when they’d met like this before he’d taken him upstairs, as if he wanted to make sure that Ryan knew he wasn’t here for the one thing only. Today was no exception - they sat on the leather couch in the spacious living room, drinking (or in Ryan’s case, sipping) champagne, talking about their teammates, about games upcoming or past, about the clubs Eric had played before.
Eric had a way of telling stories, or rather a way of telling them halfway through before he went off on a tangent and came to talk about a completely different topic altogether. It was incredibly hard to follow him if you didn’t know he did that; but Ryan did and was able to follow his train of thought quite well - until Eric made a particularly daring leap from rising wages for footballers to traffic congestion in the city centre.
Ryan, for once, had no bloody clue what he was talking about, and in fact, he hadn’t really been listening either - his mind kept wandering back to the look he’d seen in Eric’s eyes back in the taxi. It had stung then, for reasons Ryan couldn’t quite put the finger on, and it still stung a bit now when he thought about it.
“…why there are more cars.” Eric said, finishing his line of argument, finishing his glass of champagne and settling back on the couch with a satisfied expression on his face.
Ryan kissed him then, full on the lips and without any ceremony whatsoever, climbing onto Cantona’s lap and putting his arms around his neck. He just stopped thinking, about the pub, his still damp trousers, anything, just tasted the champagne, let his hands wander on their own accord, over Eric’s neck, his ears, feeling the strange sensation of short hair tickling his palms when he moved his hands over the other man’s head - a feeling that had taken him a while to get used to…
Eric, on the other hand, seemed to have no problem with his hair - Ryan had noticed quickly that the other man liked to run his fingers through his curls until they were a dishevelled black mess, or to tug at them as he did now, kissing him back passionately until both of them had to pull back for air.
“Upstairs,” the command came, Eric’s voice hoarse and breathless. Ryan only trusted himself with a nod. Clumsily, he eased himself backwards and off Eric’s lap - it took him a while to find the ground beneath his feet, and even then, his legs felt like jelly, as if he had just run for miles and miles on end. It took Eric even longer to get up, or at least Ryan thought it did - he wanted to get on with this, wanted to get upstairs, impatiently grabbing Eric’s wrist and pulling him towards the stairs.
He felt bad for that by the time they’d reached the bottom of the stairs, didn’t want to ruin it by rushing it when he knew that Eric liked to take it slow, relishing every second of their get-togethers, or whatever he preferred to call them. He stopped to turn around, barely saw Eric pounce as he did, before the other man claimed his lips in another hungry kiss, causing Ryan to make a step backwards, almost falling over the first stair as he did - the next thing he could feel was Eric’s hands on his thighs, lifting him up, and then he just hoped that Eric wouldn’t fall over backwards and down the stairs, clinging to the other man’s neck for his dear life as he was being carried upstairs, not daring to do anything but wrapping his legs as tightly around Eric’s waist as he could.
Eric let him back down when they reached the top of the stairs, and they stumbled into the dark bedroom, kissing furiously, hands tugging at each other’s clothing - getitoff, getitoff - tripping over pairs of shoes and Eric’s carelessly abandoned canvas bag on the floor.
Something touched the back of his legs - the bed, Ryan thought before Cantona abruptly let go of him and disappeared into the darkness.
“Eric?” No reply. Ryan stood and listened into the darkness, his lips numb, blood rushing in his ears, the air coming in ragged breaths. Apart from that, silence. What was this supposed to mean? He was pretty much in unknown territory, and started to feel exposed and uncomfortable, standing alone in the dark.
“If you want to play hide and seek, I’m not breaking my neck groping -” He said it aloud, trying to cover up his uncertainty.
There was the faint rustling of fabric behind him, a shirt sliding to the floor; soft creaking of bedsprings. The lamp on the nightstand came on, flooding the bedroom with yellow light.
He could feel Eric’s breath on his neck, the warmth of his body behind his own, felt a shiver run down his spine when he kissed him just above the collar of his shirt. Eric’s hands, cool and steady, running down his sides, caressing his skin as they slid under his shirt to lift it up - a brief struggle as the shirt caught when he wanted to pull it over his head, a chuckle - then, the shirt disappeared into the shadows to Ryan’s feet.
“Come here.” Eric’s voice was gentle now, tense edge completely gone. Ryan obeyed; turned around and crawled onto the bed, let Eric guide him to lie down on his back, silky sheets cool against his torso.
He looked away when Eric took off his jeans, not quite brave enough yet to watch him openly - his eyes were fixed on the ceiling, hips bucking on their own accord when Eric slid his hands over Ryan’s hipbones, hooking two fingers under the waistband of his trousers, pulling them down in one. He felt goose bumps rise on his flesh as it was exposed to the cold air; noticed how the mattress shifted when Eric leaned over to fetch something from the nightstand drawer.
Cantona’s face shifted back into focus, looming over him, legs carefully settling between Ryan’s, nudging them apart - Ryan felt Eric’s arousal against his thigh, remembered faintly how terrified he’d been the first time that had happened -
“Mmmm!” Eric’s hand disappeared between their bodies, stroking his shaft while he kissed him sloppily, more tongues and spit than anything else, and Ryan clung to him, eyes closed, hands roaming up and down Cantona’s back, feeling every move of the strong muscles beneath the skin. Then, Eric broke the kiss and let go, his face disappearing out of Ryan’s sight.
Ryan made a complaining sound, tried to guide Eric’s hand back to where it had been - instead, it was sliding up his thigh, tickling him. He barely suppressed a giggle, dug his toes into the sheets to stop himself from kicking out. The tickling stopped, springs creaked as Eric shifted on the mattress. Then, a slick finger probed against Ryan’s entrance.
“Nghh!” He hadn’t expected this - fingers digging into Eric’s back, Ryan arched up, writhing and moaning when Eric pushed the first finger in, carefully, distracting him by crushing their lips together again; a second finger followed, moving and stretching inside him, not as painful as it had been the first time, but still enough to make him gasp and shiver under Eric. Gradually, he relaxed, feeling Eric’s finger probe inside him, a feeling that was both alien and nice at the same time, but nowhere as horrible as he’d thought it to be initially -
ohgod -
Waves of pleasure rippled through his body, drizzled into every single cell of his being when Eric’s fingers brushed a spot inside him that Ryan didn’t even know to exist, little bright spots dancing before his eyes - Eric smiled and kissed him again, not quite as messily this time, fingers retreating, leaving Ryan feeling empty, wanting more.
“Ready?” Eric’s eyes boring into his. Ryan could only manage to nod, tightly shutting his eyes, holding his breath, preparing for the pain he both feared and wanted -
A broken moan when Eric entered him - Ryan didn’t know who had uttered it, forgot where he was, who he was as the world around him fell out of focus, leaving him with nothing but Eric, his skin warm and moving against his own, a hand stroking his shaft, their breaths mingling, sweaty foreheads touching when Eric started to move inside him.
He felt Eric’s hand tangle in his hair, pulling it backwards as they kissed, again and again - Ryan arched up to meet his thrusts, wrapped his legs around the other man’s waist without really thinking about it, just did it because it felt like the right thing to do - he found it hard to breathe, held his breath when Eric thrust inside him, gasped out awkwardly in between sloppy kisses, dug his nails deep, deep into Eric’s back when Cantona groaned and buried his face in Ryan’s hair, his thrusts growing stronger, faster, almost desperate -
Every muscle of Ryan’s body ached, screamed for release - he pushed into Eric’s grip, begged - ohpleasejesusplease - clumsily stroking his hair, hands slipping on the other man’s sweaty neck, Eric incoherently mumbling something French into his ear, his words separated by ragged breaths, thrust, breath, thrust, breath -
Ryan cried out, exploding into Eric’s hand, feeling the sticky substance on his own stomach; shortly after, Eric came deep inside him, gasping out something Ryan didn’t understand, and then collapsing on top of him, breathing heavily, still stroking Ryan’s hair.
For a few seconds, Ryan was sure that he would never be able to move again - but Cantona was still lying on top of him with all his weight, and Ryan found it hard to breathe. Slowly, he wriggled himself free, resting his head on Eric’s chest, close to where the Indian was tattooed over his heart; tracing it with his index finger, he could hear Eric’s heartbeat, quick and loud at first, then gradually quieting down, much like Eric’s breath in his hair.
Half an hour later, Ryan was sitting downstairs on the leather couch in Eric’s living room, the curly hair wet from the shower he’d just taken, the flute of champagne from before still on the glass table before him. He hadn’t but taken a sip from it yet, didn’t like it that much; and in addition to that, he felt he’d had enough to drink for tonight.
Upstairs, he could hear the water rushing from the bathroom; then, there was silence, Eric’s footsteps in the bedroom above. Minutes later, Cantona came down the stairs in jeans and a sweater, holding a package wrapped in red paper in his hand. Eric helped himself to a glass of champagne before he sat down next to Ryan.
“Here."
Ryan could smell the same shampoo he’d used himself just a few minutes ago when he leaned over and took the present from Eric’s hands. He put it in his lap, unsure what to do - he hadn’t expected a gift, not from Eric Cantona, of all people, and he hadn’t got anything to give in return.
“I didn’t know you had a present for me.” His cheeks burned.
But Eric didn’t seem to hear him, or was deliberately ignoring the embarrassed tone in Ryan’s voice. He gestured to the package in Ryan’s lap. “Open it,” he said, and Ryan thought he could hear the same impatience in his voice that his mother always failed to conceal when she urged Rhodri and him to ‘open the big present first’ on Christmas Day.
He felt Eric’s eyes on him as he fumbled with the golden ribbon, loosening it before he could pull it off. The present felt soft in his hands; red wrapping paper, too exquisite to tear, rustled promisingly as Ryan turned the package around to carefully peel off the Sellotape, the tip of his tongue sticking out in concentration.
Peeling off the last bit of the transparent tape, he unwrapped the present, put the paper aside with trembling fingers, unfolded the soft fabric in his lap. His heart skipped a beat.
“Eric - I can’t -” The shirt looked expensive, bloody expensive, an extravagant affair in red and black. Ryan knew in an instant that he’d never wear it in public.
“Put it on.”
Ryan did, reluctantly, not wanting to anger Eric. He pulled his old shirt over his head, carefully folded it and hung it over the back of the couch before he slipped into the shirt Eric had given to him. It felt nice on his skin, and Ryan liked the colours, knew he could carry them off, but -
“Eric - my mum, she’ll want to know - everyone’s gonna want to know - I - I mean it’s nice and everything, but…” Ryan’s voice trailed off. He was lost for words now, not wanting to hurt his friend by rejecting his present, not being able to accept it either - how could he ever explain why one of his team-mates gave him an expensive shirt like this for Christmas? He couldn’t stand to look at Eric.
But to his surprise, Eric laughed - softly, and when Ryan dared to look up at him, the sparkle was back in his eyes, no anger, no hurt. “Ryan, Ryan…forever modest, aren’t you?” Eric’s hands stroked his damp curls, played with them as he spoke; raked his fingers through them, combing them back. He was looking at him, but Ryan had the feeling that Eric was far away in his own thoughts, looking at something no one else could see.
“Just wear it when you come here; I’ll keep it for you.” Thoughtfully, still, and the hands had moved on, were turning up the collar of his new shirt, smoothing out a crease at the front, picking off a speck of dirt. Then, Eric stopped, his hands resting on Ryan’s shoulders.
“Joyeux Noel, Ryan.” This time, Eric was really looking at him.
“Joyeux Noel, Eric.” He’d looked that phrase up in Rhodri’s GCSE French textbook and practised it with his brother for more than an hour, until it didn’t make him feel like he had a knot in his tongue anymore. It still sounded a bit strange to his ears, and it was either that or the fact that Ryan, never as good with languages as he was with the ball, had learned that phrase to surprise him with it, that made Eric smile as he pulled Ryan close.
His hands were back in Ryan’s hair, thumbs caressing his head just above the ears. Apart from the ticking of a clock somewhere in the house, and the steady rushing of cars outside, there was complete, comfortable silence. Ryan idly wondered if Eric realised that the way he was lying undid all the efforts he had made earlier to straighten his shirt; and with that thought, he drifted off into sleep.